When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary
by Morning Dew
Summary: FINISHED! A temperamental leader. Another's obsession with death. Six warring boroughs and two newsies who experience their enemies' lives for the sake of the innocent. Can Spot's flirtation with vengeance be stopped by a girl he kidnapped?
1. They's Killed Rudy and Bricks

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke.  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Spot Conlon laughed at the sight of his younger cousin, Runner, trying to hawk headlines to the indifferent crowds about him with an undying fervor only found in the most devoted of newsboys. Runner had joined the Brooklyn Lodging House shortly after his tenth birthday, though his past was not the typical satirical one that gave New York its infamous air of a harsh life. On the contrary, Runner and Spot's aunt had sent both of the boys to a high-class preparatory school on a full scholarship that would cover everything from boarding and tuition to books and meal plans. However, only after their third week of school, the Conlons had been suspended for the possession of drugs in their dorm room-a set up a jealous student who envied Spot's flawless genius had devised to get rid of the boy- and being too proud to ever step foot in the school again, they turned to the streets to make a living that might not be ever-flowing with luxuries, but that would suit them nonetheless.  
  
"I take back what I'se said earlier about youse being a prodigy," Spot laughed as he approached his relative. "Youse been sellin fer four years now but youse look like youse suffering through yer foist day!"  
  
"Sorry, yer highness," Runner snorted, mimicking the fanatics that kissed up to the Brooklyn leader like dogs obeying their masters. He remembered how quickly Spot had climbed the newsie social ladder after they were kicked out of prep school. Everyone had been drawn to Spot's charisma and wished to please him in any way they could. "Youse done sellin already?"  
  
"Of coise," the older replied. "Ya know it only takes me an hour or so tah get rid of two hundred." He smirked at his achievement and took off his hat to run his fingers through his hair.  
  
"Yea, we'se all knows the statistics. Ya don't gotta be braggin about it every hour of the day."  
  
Spot held up his hands. "Touchy, touchy, aint we? Youse aint getting jealous, are ya?"  
  
"Ah, shaddup!" Runner shoved a paper into the arms of a businessman passing by and in his most pitiful voice, made a desperate plea to the man to buy the morning issue. He successfully made the sale and smiled down at the shiny penny he had received in his hand. "Since youse is heah botherin me, I might as well give youse the scoop of news I'se been hearin lately. Apparently, Harlem and Queens is at war again."  
  
"When is they's never at war?"  
  
Runner laughed. "I think it's gettin woise. Queens formed an alliance with Midtown and the Bronx and together, all three boroughs is gunna sack Harlem in one night. According tah me sources, the leadah of Harlem is also the leadah of some Italian gang that supposedly killed a few kids in close relation with Queens. Now seeing how we'se has close ties with Flame and his newsies from Queens, I knew that sooner or later we'se was gunna be pulled into this whole scandal. And shoah enough, one of his messenger newsies came over to the lodging house right after youse left for the distribution center and started begging fer help. Each borough has a certain assignment that needs tah be carried out sometime this week, and they's want us tah carry out ours by Friday night cause we'se can easily pull it off."  
  
Spot arched an eyebrow. "Damn, I feel like we'se on a secret mission. What the hell is our assignment?"  
  
"Well...we'se uh....they want us tah, uh, kidnap this goil."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
Runner backed up a few feet. "Listen, it wasn't my idea! Flame says that some doll by the name of Rosary happens tah be the Harlem leadah's sistah. If we'se kidnap her, it'll force Harlem tah make a truce with the other boroughs. It kinda makes sense if youse think about it."  
  
"What are ya, stupid?" Spot smacked his cousin upside the head and glared down at him. "We'se aint kidnapping some goil! We'se could be thrown in the refuge fer that!"  
  
"Spot, they killed Rudy and Bricks," the younger replied dejectedly, his eyes gazing down at the streets in a brooding manner.  
  
"WHAT?! Rudy and Bricks?!" Spot went on with the questions and when he paused to keep himself from breaking down into sobs, Runner held up one of his newspaper, flipped over to the sixth page, and showed the Brooklyn leader the article on the two deceased youths. Spot read the story anxiously, his mind hanging onto every word as intently as a lover listened to a sonnet. It could not be true, yet the evidence was staring right at him in grave tones. Rudy and Bricks were best friends he had known since his days before a newsie life. Hearing that they were no longer among the living was unreal, as if he were trapped in the confines of a nightmarish hell. He let the paper fell from his fingers and looked off ahead of him at nothing in particular. "No," was all he could muster to say and it came out as a whisper. But soon, the anger within him broiled in outrage and he became infuriated. "NO! Those bastards is gunna pay fer this! I'll make 'em sorry they's ever messed wid a friend of Spot Conlon's!"  
  
Runner lightened up a bit, though still inwardly mourned. "So youse going through wid our side of the deal? Youse is gunna get the goil and keep her at the lodging house 'til Queens comes for her? 'Cause I'se gots all the information we needs tah make this easy."  
  
"Damn right I am," Spot nearly shouted with a swift nod of his head. "We better get Jack and his boys on this, though. I wanna make shoah none of us is caught, so I'll have lookouts everywhere. The more of us there is in the streets, the better chance we'se gots of murderin that damn Harlem scab!"  
  
* * * * *  
  
The cluster of stars above filled Rosary with passion and peacefulness as she strode down the sidewalks of Harlem to her uncle's restaurant for a late dinner. The temperature was drastically dropping with the coming winter and she pulled the wool shawl draped about her shoulders closer to protect her from the chilly winds. Just another two blocks and she would be in the family-owned eatery that always smelled of fresh pasta and Alfredo sauce. She could not wait to get her stomach filled with all the delights her uncle would be undoubtedly cooking. It had been a long day of selling papers for her and she was starving.  
  
She combed her slender fingers through her lengthy strands of silky black hair and glanced up at the street sign she was approaching. Only one more block now. She could almost imagine the scent of garlic bread from where she now stood. She wondered if her brother was already there waiting for her. She assumed he was not, as he had prioritized his notorious gang over his own relatives as of late. Rosary bit her lip in worry. Her brother was a newsie, not a thief or murderer. What had pervaded his conscious and had turned him into such a foul person? He used to be the most wonderful gentleman, always minding his manners and attending church masses, but now it seemed as if the only thing he cared about was the death of his enemies.  
  
Rosary stopped dead in her tracks, thinking she heard footsteps behind her. She spun around instantly and held up clenched fists, ready to strike anyone who tried to take advantage of her. However, there was nothing to be seen. Facing her original direction, she held her breath, waited for the uncomfortable sounds again, and was almost sure she could catch the low volume of muffled speech. She was of clever mind, though, and would not let the would-be molesters get the best of her. Therefore, she began singing a lovely tune at the top of her lungs, awakening half the block.  
  
"Rosary, go home!" Someone shouted through an open window.  
  
"Life aint no musical, goil," came another voice, the grumpy neighbor of the block.  
  
"Rosary!"  
  
The girl smiled at her triumph. Whoever had been waiting for her in the darkness of the alleys would not dare lay a finger on her now, what with all her friends and family in earshot. She cast one last glance behind her, and giggling like a child, skipped the rest of the distance that lay between her and the restaurant that awaited her.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"Damn goil!" Spot exclaimed as he kicked a nearby trash can. "Why does she gots to be one of the smart ones? Nah, Queens can't tah send us after some clueless broad, we'se get the dirty woik!"  
  
Jack laughed as he took a long drag on his cigarette. "If youse wasn't whisperin so loud, she wouldn't have hoid ya a mile away!"  
  
"Yea, well if youse wasn't draggin yer feet like if youse was some cripple, she wouldn't have her us coming from behind in the foist place!"  
  
Runner ran in between the two and pushed them a reasonable distance from each other. Even though both leaders had greater height over him, he was able to keep them from arguing at times. "It's only Wednesday. We'se still gots two more days tah get her, so calm down! Why don't we'se go back home and just plan this out, huh?"  
  
"I agree wid the shorty," Blink said as he climbed down the stairs of a nearby fire escape. He had been made to scan the area for the bulls from atop an office building and retired from the job upon hearing Jack and Spot's fight. "It aint the end of the woild. I mean, wid some good ideas, we'se could kidnap the doll in less than five minutes next time."  
  
Spot sighed. "Alright. Get Blink and Snitch and tell 'em they's can stop hanging in the other alleys. Meet us back in Brooklyn. We're gunna plan this out so that it woiks like a charm."  
  
* * * * *  
  
As Marcello sat in his private room of the Harlem Lodging House, he dramatically crossed out names he had written on a small piece of paper. Problems he had taken care of; things he no longer had to worry about. There were still other feats on the list he had to master before his dreams of destroying Queens were fulfilled, chiefly the last one, written in red ink to symbolize the blood he wanted that particular person to shed when he held a knife at their throat.  
  
He hated all the other boroughs of New York with such cynical enthusiasm that many of his own newsies feared him more than they did his number one enemy. Before going off to sleep, he allowed his eyes to rest on that final name one last time so that he could have sweet imaginings of seeing that person draw their last breath at his feet. The sloppy letters were engraved into his mind and his ultimate thought that night was the murder of none other than Spot Conlon.  
  
* * * * *  
  
More To Come!! PLEASE REVIEW!!! I love REVIEWS! This will get better, I promise. Everything just had to be organized in this chapter and so no real action took place. But things will speed up in the following chapters, and other things will be explained. Just bear with me. Now if you please, click that submit button and REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!!! 


	2. The Somewhat Friendly Kidnapping

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke. Oh, and Marcello is mine too. :)  
  
A.N. Near the end of chapter one, when Spot and company are in Harlem, Spot says to Blink, "Get Blink and Snitch..." Yea, well, that was suppose to say "Get Boots and Snitch" instead. Sorry about that! :Cries: Hahaha. Hope no one got confused! By the way, thanks to all those who reviewed! Praises be to Ali, Ashley, and Falco- my first three! Keep those reviews coming!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Rosary whistled a lively melody as she strolled down the streets of her neighborhood, basking in the warm rays of the sun above. As she had assumed, her brother Marcello had not been at the family dinner last night. She was angered by his lack of dedication of course, but she would not let it dampen her moods. Still at home were two younger siblings she had to support, since Marcello obviously was not doing anything to better the financial status they were in.  
  
As she combed her loose hair behind her ears, she noticed a boy around the age of sixteen sprawled relaxingly over a bench in deep slumber. His clothes were threadbare and looked nothing more than a compilation of large, dirty rags. She sighed, taking pity on the boy and as she passed him by, dropped five pennies into his hand. Hoping the money would at least support his lunch and dinner for that day, she walked away in better moods.  
  
Snitch awoke with a start. Something cold had fallen into his hand, some pebbles perchance, though he did not know where they would have fallen from. He cringed at the other possibility, bird droppings. He nearly vomited at the thought and dared not look into his palm, but his curiosity begot him in the end. He brought his hand to his face and peered down at the objects that he held. Five cents! He furrowed his forehead in confusion. He had not sold any papers today, where did he get the money from? He looked about him wildly and caught the figure of a girl about to turn the corner of a block. Jumping to his feet, he ran after her, yelling, "Miss! Miss!"  
  
Rosary turned around at the call and smiled at the boy as he ran up to her. "Are you talking to me?"  
  
"Uh, yea," Snitch replied softly. He held up his hand in an attempt to give her the money back. "I'se aint a beggar."  
  
"You seemed to be in dire conditions so I thought I would help you out," said she.  
  
"Well, I thank ya fer yer kindness, but I'se makes me livin sellin papes in Manhattan. I'se just takin the day off, ya knows? Heah, please take yer money back. I wouldn't feel right takin it."  
  
Rosary nodded and held out her hand to receive the money, but as she did this, she felt Snitch's hand suavely go into the pocket of her thin coat. She grabbed him by the wrist and smirked at him. "Not a beggar, huh?"  
  
"Sorry, it's a hard habit tah break. I used tah pick pocket when I'se was younger, and I never did stop, although I do it less now than I did back then."  
  
The girl laughed. "Right. Well, since we're practically acquainted by now, why don't I treat you to breakfast? There's an apple vendor right down the block I'm headed for. Come on!"  
  
"I dunno." Snitch nervously looked around the area to see if any from his company were nearby. "I'se don't mean tah sound greedy or anything, but I'se gots a few friends wid me and it wouldn't be fair fer me tah eat while they's starve. And since it wouldn't be fair fer youse tah buy apples fer the six of us, I'll have tah pass up the invitation. But thanks anyways!"  
  
"Oh, don't worry about it! I have enough spare change for all of them." Rosary took out a small pouch from inside her pocket and showed Snitch all the coins it contained. "I sell papers too, but I also work at a factory, so I make double the salary." She smiled brightly and waited for a response.  
  
Snitch did not want such a sweet person to get hurt. They were here to kidnap the girl, not befriend her! He scratched the back of his head and looked down at his feet. "Shoah," he said. "And I'll introduce ya tah me friends." He motioned to her to follow him and led her into an alley where Spot and Jack were busy debating over petty issues. Snitch cleared his throat. "Uh, fellahs?"  
  
Spot nearly snapped, but upon seeing Rosary, he maintained a calm composure. "Heya, Snitch!" He sauntered over to the girl, took her hand in his, and delicately kissed it. Sure he was here to do a job, but for now, he would try not to be harsh. "Does a name go wid yer beautiful face?"  
  
Rosary rolled her eyes at the all too common act and pulled her hand back. "It's highly unlikely for someone to not have a name, so the answer to your question is yes. My name is Rosary."  
  
"No need tah be nasty about it," Spot replied, offended. His lines were never meant to be taken literally.  
  
"Oh, the girl said suddenly, more to Snitch than to anyone else, "I just remembered I have an appointment with...a, uh, a friend of mines! I guess I won't be able to treat you to breakfast afterall. Sorry!" Hiding her face so that they would not see that she was lying, she tried to hurry past Snitch, but a taller boy seized her arm and yanked her back to him. He had light brown hair and stunning grey eyes that made her think she was gazing at stardust.  
  
"Yer brother is Marcello, right?"  
  
"Listen, whatever Marcello has done, I know nothing about. His business is his own. If you have an old score to settle with him, please don't get me or anybody else from my family involved. We're not interested in the dirty street politics he's known for. Please, let me go."  
  
Another voice, a younger one, spoke up from beside her. "Well yer brother happened tah moider two friends of mines and we'se intend on getting even."  
  
Rosary gasped. "I'm heartily sorry, I knew nothing about this, I swear! Please don't take this out on me, I had nothing to do with it!" She began to panic and attempted to break free of the grasp the tall boy had on her. This only caused him to take other precautions.  
  
"Blink, Spot, hold her while I'se take off me bandana."  
  
"Please, don't hurt me. My brother and I haven't talked in weeks! I wouldn't know anything about his schemes." Tears dropped from her chocolate brown eyes and she screamt at such an ear-piercing pitch that the blonde boy who had earlier kissed her hand slapped her.  
  
"Spot, don't be a dumbass. Youse aint gotta hit her!"  
  
"Youse rather the bulls think we'se tryin tah rape her? I bet ya they's already on their way by now. Hurry up and tie the damn bandana over her mouth, Jacky. We'se aint got all day." Jack wrapped his bandana around the girl's lips and tied its ends firmly behind her head. Then with a heavy string he had untied from a stack of newspapers, he cuffed her hands together, careful not to bind them too tight.  
  
Rosary continued crying until her eyes fell on Snitch, who was shyly watching the whole event occur from a short distance. He bit his lip and looked away, ashamed of having deceived the girl.  
  
"I just realized something," Spot said after a moment. "We'se can't exactly walk outta Harlem wid the goil tied up like this." He did away with her bindings and stood back to think. Suddenly, his eyes lighted up with an idea and he pulled out a pocket knife. Rosary screamed again and Spot glared at her. "I'se aint gunna use it on youse! Instead, we'se gunna woik out a deal. Youse is gunna walk tah Brooklyn wid us and not put up a fight the whole way, cause if youse do, me hand holding this knife will be right behind ya and I'se won't hesitate tah draw blood."  
  
Rosary glared at him. "You're such a bastard, all of you! Don't you know that as soon as my brother finds out about this, he'll hunt you down like dogs! So you leave a little scratch on my back, so what? When he's done with you, you'll be nothing more than mounds of flesh." She looked at Spot in particular for her following words. "Though from what I see, some of you are not to far from that state naturally."  
  
"Ya damn little wh-"  
  
Jack held back the Brooklyn leader back and looked down at the girl. "So we'se gots a deal or what?"  
  
"Sure," Rosary replied with a shrug of her shoulders. "I've been meaning to visit the other boroughs anyways." Jack draped an arm over her shoulders and together with the other five newsies, they began the long walk to Brooklyn.  
  
* * * * * It's that time again! REVIEW TIME!! YaaaaY! C'mon, ya know ya wanna REVIEW! Just click that pretty purple button down yonder and write me a few words, huh? PleeeASE?! I love REVIEWS!! Send them in! Send them in! Love ya all! 


	3. Little Terror From Harlem

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke. Oh, and Marcello is mine too. :) And Piper, and Patches, and Cherry.  
  
A.N. Yay! Thanks to all my reviewers! Jess, falco, american-psycho, pecan, The Hiccuping Newsgirl, Slick, Ali, and Ashley! You guys ROCK! Thanks so much for your reviews and I'm glad you all are enjoying the story so far! Have fun reading this next chapter!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Spot shoved Rosary through the large wooden doors of the Brooklyn Lodging House and slammed the door behind him as miniscule droplets of water streaked down his face. "Youse ever embarrass me like that in front of me newsies again, and I swear I'll wring yer neck!"  
  
On the way to Brooklyn, the ever-arguing enemies had begun to yell at each other in front of countless Brooklyn newsies who had peacefully been playing poker, taking a relaxing break from work. The altercation carried on to the docks, and at one time, Rosary grew so aggravated by Spot's domineering ways that she gently placed two hands on his shoulders, only to push him back into the chilly river behind. Spot fell into the icy waters with a surprised yelp and there was a moment of silence, as no one could believe what had just occurred.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, "but you were annoying me."  
  
He grabbed her arm and pulled her farther into the main room of the lodging house. "Do youse even know who I am?"  
  
"What, you mean besides a stuck-up brat who thinks he owns everyone?" She pursed her lips and waited for a response.  
  
"Youse lucky I'se don't hit goils twice in one day!" He continued pulling her through rooms, up a staircase, and into an area filled with numerous bunk beds from which a heavy odor of smoke was emitted. He saw her nose wrinkle in disgust and smirked. "Some of the guys heah likes tah take a smoke or two sometimes."  
  
Rosary sighed. "Look, I know I'm sort of like your prisoner here and all, but I have breathing problems sometimes and I would really prefer to sleep somewhere else, even if you have to put me on the fire escape. Just please, not in this room?" She actually pleaded with him, for she was quite aware that her sarcastic comments were not going to get her anywhere.  
  
"Oh really?" His facial features smoothed out in sympathy. He took the girl in his arms and cocked his head to one side with a frown. But the act ended when he glared at her. "What's this look like tah youse, a hotel? Youse stay in whatever room I'se give ya!" He led her over to a well-built boy sitting atop a bunk counting his money. "Heya, Piper, this is Rosary heah. Youse gots the only bunk with an empty mattress so she's sleepin under ya bed, alright?"  
  
"Shoah, Spot. Whatever ya say."  
  
Rosary's eyes grew wide in panic as Spot began to leave the room. "Wait! Don't you have a girl's bunkroom? Won't the boys try to...do stuff to me?"  
  
Spot shrugged. "What do I'se care if they's do. Youse from Harlem; they'll probably teach ya a few lessons and save me the trouble." He seemed to take delight in her disappointed look as he strolled out the door in all confidence.  
  
* * * * *  
  
That night, Spot lay in his bed reminiscing over his friendship with Rudy and Bricks. It was as if just yesterday he was frolicking through the city with them playing cops and robbers, learning how to pickpocket, and running from the bulls every hour. He covered his face with his hands and groaned. They both had only been a year older then him; they still could have given something to the world. But no. All that was cut short by the stupidity of one Harlem leader who got a natural high from murdering. Spot swung his legs over the edge of his bed jumped to his feet. His undershirt was still damp from his plunge into the river earlier today and he shivered at the cool tingle it sent down his spine. 'Damn goil,' he thought. She was not the first female to question his authority; many had come before doing just that. However, the difference between those girls and Rosary was that the latter did not make retorts in order to see Spot's leadership crumble before his followers. A different underlying source fueled the Harlem girl's backtalk, but he was not sure what it was.  
  
He leaned his forehead against the pane of his window and breathed out a sigh that fogged up a small area of the glass when it escaped his lips. Down on the streets below, a small figure was apprehensively making its way though the darkness, casting glances at the lodging house every so often, obviously worried about something. Spot squinted his to get a better view of the person and then gasped. "Damn goil!"  
  
He pushed the window open, jumped onto the fire escape, and dashed down its staircase in a mad rush. When Rosary heard the loud plodding of feet, she did not even look behind her. Off she ran, trying her best to keep a large distance between herself and the Brooklyn leader. But Spot was in better shape and therefore faster in speed. In less than a minute, he was right at the girl's heels and in one last leap, he tackled her down to the cement where they landed violently with a thud.  
  
"Can I'se not trust youse tah stay where youse is told tah stay? Did ya really think you would get far before I knew youse were gone? Ya better stop playin games wid me, goil, cause if youse think I'se being a joik now, ya aint seen nuthin yet!"  
  
Rosary did not even try to hold back her tears. "I'm sorry, okay?" she yelled. "Forgive me for wanting to get back to my people! I don't always think about myself, you know? If I didn't have relatives I care about back home, I might be a good little hostage, but I have a family to consider!" She pushed her way passed Spot and returned to the lodging house with her head down, but eyes still blazing.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Spot could not sleep afterwards. With Rosary sleeping in the bed beneath him, how could he? Wanting to keep a closer eye on her, he had switched her from the boys' bunkroom to his own room, but he found it only made him uncomfortable. Sure, he had brought girls into his room before, sometimes three different flings in one day, but Rosary was like an internal termite that crept under his skin. She had wit, she made him think, and he despised that. To establish the proper kidnapping setting, he would have to enforce some rules here! She could not run the show as if she owned the place!  
  
He turned onto his side and rested his head into his pillow. He wandered when Queens was going to come and claim her. It had only been one day and he was already longing for the time they would. He would ask Runner about it tomorrow. For now, he would have to live with the little terror from Harlem.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Alright, the plot actually starts firing up in the next chapter. Sorry that the beginning was so slow. Heehee. But enough of that pish posh, let's all click those buttons and REVIEW! Come on, the more reviews, the faster the update! Muahaha! REVIEW, puhleeease? Love ya all! 


	4. The Two Spies

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke. Oh, and Marcello is mine too. :) And Piper, and Patches, and Cherry. Ramon is mines too.  
  
A.N. I just want to thank everyone who's been reviewing so far. I'm glad you all are sticking with this story. Things will cook up soon! Enjoy!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
"Did youse read the article on page three?" Runner held one of his copies of the afternoon edition high for all to see and then began reading the column's crude words. "Fifteen year old newsboy shot dead in an alley last night when he was cornered by a gang of Harlem youths. There is no reasons as of yet that support a solid motive, but it is assumed that the deceased boy was allied with an opposing gang. The ones accused of the moider fled the scene upon the arrival of law enforcers but the police believe they will be able tah locate the misguided youths soon with the help of certain sources."  
  
Jack threw the sandwich he was eating back on its plate and sat back in the booth he was currently occupying with Spot, David, Blink, and Snitch. The other Manhattan newsies at Tibby's small restaurant gathered around their leader, anxiously awaiting his response. "This is getting outta hand. We'se aint gotta put up wid this bull. We can end it right now. All we'se needs is a few good fightahs, and we'll show those Harlem bitches whose they's dealin wid heah."  
  
Runner sat down at the booth across from his cousin and shook his head. "Nah, we'se don't want the problem tah escalate."  
  
Snitch fumbled with the buttons on his vest. "How is youse gunna get even? Ya aint gunna hoit the goil, are ya?"  
  
"So what if we do?" Spot snapped, snatching the paper from Runner's hands. "Harlem's killin our newsies by the day and if we'se don't do something about it, they's just gunna keep on slaughtering our friends like cattle!" He stood up and stared into the eyes of several of the boys crowded about. "I don't know about the rest of ya, but I'se feel like storming over tah Harlem, holding a gun tah Marcello's head, and blowing his damn brains out!"  
  
"And youse would be stupid if ya did that!" Runner yelled, despite the nods of agreement, claps, and cheers that became popular all of a sudden. He drew himself up and looked up to stare the Brooklyn leader in the eyes. "Killin him aint gunna solve anything! It's just gunna make things woise. Soon, the whole damn city is gunna be fighting and there'll be even more unnecessary deaths then."  
  
"Yea, well that's a risk I'se willing tah take."  
  
"At what cost? Are youse willing tah risk the lives of your newsies and those of Manhattan, and all the other boroughs that support us just tah see one guy dead? Is he really woith that much? Ya gotta take everything into account; what kinda leadah are youse?"  
  
Spot grabbed Runner by the collar of his shirt with a bitter fierceness, lifted him off the ground, and threw him a yard away into a group of nearby boys. "Ya got anything else tah say now? Cause with talk like that, youse would be the foist scab killed when a fight breaks out! No one wants tah associate with little peacemakers and ya need tah learn that."  
  
Runner glared at his cousin and was about to run forward to strike Spot for the needless embarrassment but he was held back by the others. Spot saw the attempt and sneered. "Ah, let him go. C'mon, Runner, ya wanna fight me? Ya shoah need the practice. C'mon, take a hit." He outstretched his arms and dared the younger boy to accept the challenge.  
  
But Runner merely combed his hair out of his eyes with a hand and exhaled a deep breath to relax himself. "No, cause then I'll be no better than youse. Don't ya see what I'm tryin tah say? Me getting even wid youse only makes the problem woise. But if I'se wise and only stand back, yer forced tah think of other ways tah annoy me, until ya run outta ideas and eventually give up."  
  
"Life doesn't always woik like that," Jack said, trying to calm the tension in the restaurant.  
  
"But sometimes it does," Runner countered. "And I'se thinks that...."  
  
The building's front door slammed open suddenly and in burst two young men with worried looks, panting to catch their breaths. "Is Spot Conlon heah?" Before anyone could answer the question, one of the two strangers caught sight of the infamous leader and ran over to him. "Spot, we'se gots trouble in Queens. Flame was just caught by the bulls and put into the refuge with his second and thoid in command. It's complete anarchy at the lodging house and we'se aint got no one fer an organizer. If Harlem finds out, they's gunna try to seize control and we'se nuthin compared tah them when it comes tah street fighting. I mean, the guys in their gangs is huge; like escape convicts or something!"  
  
Spot cursed under his breath. This was just great, he thought cynically. First Queens' leader is captured by the bulls along with his vice-chiefs, and then random brawls explode throughout his borough-the perfect example of why every newsie district needed someone in command. Just as bad, the first phase of Harlem's plan of domination was commencing, and to make matters worse, Spot just realized that he was stuck with Rosary since Queens was not stable enough to claim her. "The Bronx is the only place I can think of that would be able tah help us. I can't remember a time when they's was ever 'not' fighting. They should be able tah clean up Queens in no time. Go back tah yer borough and try yer best to keep the racket down while I send one of me boids fer help." The boy nodded in thanks and ran out of the restaurant with his companion.  
  
"I'se tellin ya, Conlon," Jack said, "we'se gotta show Harlem their place in this woild."  
  
Spot smirked. "Actually, I'se gots something else in mind fer one of me favorite newsies." He looked at Runner with an unreadable expression, but the younger knew it meant trouble for him. "What if we'se were tah send a sort of spy tah Harlem? He wouldn't observe them from afar; he would actually be a part of them. He'll sell wid them, eat wid them, live wid them, and learn everything they's plotting against us. They's might suspect something at foist, but after a few days pass and there aint no betrayal, they'll become trusting, and start shedding light on all their schemes. Once that's done, our little fraud comes back tah us, explains the deal, and then we'se decide what tah do from there."  
  
Blink stepped into the middle of the crowd. "I don't know, that's a bit risky, Spot. Harlem aint full of idiots and if they knows youse double- crossing them, they get real dangerous as we'se all already know."  
  
"And there's no guarantee that they'll share everything with our spy," David added from where he sat. "There's too many consequences outweighing the advantages of the idea and I don't think we should go through with it."  
  
Jack shrugged. "Honestly, I kinda like it. It gives us the upper hand in both our schemes and theirs. What do we'se gots tah lose?"  
  
"Someone's life!" Runner exclaimed. He could not believe some of the newsies were actually considering it. It seemed as if David and Blink were the only ones with sense in this neighborhood!  
  
"That's where youse come in," Spot laughed, resting his hands on Runner's shoulders. "Since youse believe so earnestly in the principles that multiple lives should not be risked, we'se only gunna risk one. And since yer the one who proposed the idea of peace, you get tah be that lucky go-getter!"  
  
Runner's jaw dropped open when Spot got another cheer from his admirers. Why did they so willingly give their consent to his decisions without considering the negative outcomes that would arise? However, there was nothing Runner could do at that point. If he refused to be Spot's pawn, then Manhattan and Brooklyn would be driven by their passion for revenge. He had to go through with the perilous task, if only for the well-being of those who stood in the way of Harlem's climb to supremacy.  
  
* * * * *  
  
"So if I were to run away right now, neither of you would care?"  
  
"Of course not! Hell, if Spot was acting like me overseer, I'se would runaway in a heartbeat." Patches, named so because of the patches of freckles on her cheeks, pulled back her short brown hair into a ponytail and laughed. "Truthfully, he isn't that bad once ya get tah know him. But the foist few days of being in his company is pure torture. When I became a newsie a few years ago, he was such a joik tah me, and kept testing me in selling and sling shooting, and all the other Brooklyn crap, as if I had tah prove myself tah him. I never put up a fight, though, and now he's like a brother tah me!"  
  
Rosary smiled and stood aside as the girl sold a paper to a passerby. Being kept imprisoned in Brooklyn, she did not have to sell papers to earn a salary from which she would otherwise need to pay for lodging; Spot was paying her fare. She did not know whether that was a miracle or not. The was he had treated her as of late, she thought he would raise the prices of lodging exclusively for her and then make her pay a week's fee in advance.  
  
"I don't get why he's so popular wid all the goils," a tall girl named Cherry with black curly hair commented. "I think it's his eyes that draw them in, cause he shoah as hell aint got no charm!"  
  
Patches playfully pushed the girl and shook her head with a grin. "Nah, I bet Spot's an angel when he's wid a goil he wants tah take home. But ya know who's a real charmer? His cousin, Runner." A dreamy look passed over her eyes and for a few seconds, she dazed off, lost in a dream world of her own.  
  
"He's too young fer me," said Cherry. "I like the older men, the more sophisticated ones. I visited this college in Manhattan once, and the place was flooded with good-looking boys wid brains!"  
  
The three girls continued sharing jokes and gossip as they approached Central Park. As hunger rose in their stomachs, Patches and Cherry suggested that they grab a bite to eat at a nearby vendor. Once they obtained their food, they sat a bench on the park and devoured their meals as if it would be their last. Rosary nibbled at a pretzel absentmindedly until a boy in a grey coat and hat standing before the steps of a bookstore caught her attention. He looked rather familiar and she excused herself from Patches and Cherry, saying she would return in a moment's time after she purchased a piece of fruit to soothe a new appetite that had befallen her.  
  
She casually made her way to the boy and as she neared him, she realized he was one of the older boys from Marcello's brood of newsies. "Ramon, what are you doing here?!"  
  
He pulled her into the bookstore, afraid that the Manhattan newsgirls would see him talking with Rosary. "Me and Marcello went tah yer mother's house this morning fer breakfast. She said ya hadn't come home last night, and we'se instantly knew what happened. It was them bastards from Queens, wasn't it? So we'se killed one of their scabs so that they'd know not tah mess wid youse."  
  
Rosary covered her mouth with her hands and looked at him stunned. "Oh my god, that is so horrible!" She fell back into a leather couch situated at one of the bookstore's corners and whined. "That is so horrible! Queens didn't kidnap me, Ramon! You jumped to conclusions and now someone is dead, some innocent person is dead! I can't believe this!"  
  
Ramon kneeled down in front of her and took her hands in his own. "Listen, goil, we'se can't afford tah not jump to conclusions no more. We go by instinct nowadays, and if someone innocent gets hoit because of it, than that's just how life goes."  
  
"Please take me home, I don't want to hear another minute of this! Mama needs to know what Marcello is getting himself into." She started to rise, but Ramon pushed her back down into the seat.  
  
"Babe, I'se can't take ya back home just yet. Foist, I need tah know something. If Queens didn't kidnap ya, then who did?"  
  
"Brooklyn."  
  
His eyes seemed to flare up with hatred. "Ya mean Spot Conlon's crew? This is poifect! Yer brother was planning to slit his throat sooner or latah, might as well be sooner."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Rosary was disgusted by the vivid graphics and wanted nothing more than to be in the company of her family and cry onto the pillow of her own bed.  
  
"Youse is gunna hate me fer this," Ramon began, "but I think it would be best fer youse tah stay here in Brooklyn, only because you'd be doing Harlem a favor." She opened her mouth to object but he placed his fingers upon her lips and proceeded with his explanation. "Harlem is tryin tah figure out which borough tah sack foist. Knowing they's all allied together by now, we'se desperate to know what they's planning so that we can take them by surprise. The only way tah do this was tah bribe someone within their crowd and get answers from them. But youse just made it so much easier. Say you were tah floit wid Spot and get him tah chase after ya. Youse would win his trust and he would spill all tah youse. Afterwards, ya come back home and tell yer brother all the details. Whaddya think?"  
  
"I hate you," she said with utter resent. "How could you put me up to this? I want to go home! I hate Brooklyn and everything having to do with Spot. What makes you think I want to play pretend and be his girl?"  
  
"Listen, ya don't want any more people tah get hoit, right?" She nodded. "Well, this is the best way to make shoah that doesn't happen. The more information ya get for us, the less people we'll have tah kill. How's that sound?"  
  
She pushed him away and crossed her arms. "I've always disliked you. From the time we first met, I knew you were a snake. But I only want the best for Marcello; I don't want him to worsen his life. I'll do what you say, but promise me that you'll come take me home when it's all done."  
  
"Look! Your friends are coming tah look fer youse!" He slapped money into her hands, chose a book from a shelf beside him, and threw it into her arms. "Buy this, so that they's think that choosing something was what took ya so long! I'se gotta go, I'll talk tah youse latah!" He hurried to the back of the store and exited the building through the employee's entrance.  
  
Rosary looked down at the book she was to buy. 'Crime and Punishment'. What a fitting title for my predicament, she thought to herself.  
  
* * * * *  
  
WoWzErZ! That was a long chapter, but you guys wanted action and a thickening plot so I gave it to you! So I did my part, now it's up to you guys to do yours. PLEASE REVIEW! REVIEWS are the best thing in the world and I would like to hear from you guys so I can know what you thought about this chapter and how this story's going so far. C'mon, just take out a few seconds and throw me a bone! :) REVIEW! 


	5. Switching Sides

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke. Oh, and Marcello is mine too. :) And Piper, and Patches, and Cherry. Ramon is mines too. Same goes for Falcon and Tracks.  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Rosary anxiously flipped the next page of the book she had purchased yesterday, her mind digesting each word with incredible speed. Though "Crime and Punishment" was never on her list of classic novels to read, it still grabbed her attention nonetheless. She was spellbound by the storyline so far and could hardly wait to finish the tale. She loved reading with endless passion. While other young women her age enjoyed hobbies such as cooking or knitting, Rosary rather found enjoyment in curling up in bed with a story in her hands. It was the only route that led her away from all her troubles, the only medication that gave her peace of mind.  
  
Just as she had finished reading the fourth chapter, she looked up to see Runner walking down the docks with an expression that seemed to convey to all who beheld his gaze that he was burdened with too much worries at the moment. When he became aware of the girl sitting on the crate beside a pier, he paused to stare at her, as if he were just noticing the grace by which she carried herself. In her ankle-length grey skirt and long-sleeved green blouse, she looked the part of a classy lady. The matching green ribbon that pulled her wavy hair back into a ponytail, however, allowed her to still cling to adolescence. She smiled at him and spoke. "I heard you were headed to Harlem."  
  
"Who told youse that?"  
  
"I've already made a few friends during my short stay here at Brooklyn and they like to fill me in on the things that are going around in this borough."  
  
Runner eyed her, unsure of whether to believe the girl or not. "Yea, I'se going there tah woik out some business wid them scabs youse acquainted wid."  
  
"I wish you the best of blessings then," she replied. "I don't know whether you have ever been to Harlem, but were there a contest concerning what area of New York best resembled hell, it would take first place in an instant. I mean, on almost every street, it's not enough that there are prostitutes and dangerous vagabonds roaming about. We also have to be bombarded with rapists, drug dealers, pickpockets, murderers, and the list goes on. You'd be wise to watch your back and not trust anyone, even if they trust you."  
  
"Thanks, goil. But Spot and me has lived homeless before. We'se knows the ways of the city, ya aint gotta be lecturing tah me."  
  
She shook her head. "You think you know, but everything you were taught proves to be wrong! I'm merely warning you to watch out." She looked away from him down at the book on her lap and a sudden thought occurred to her. "Speaking of Spot, and not meaning to pry into your personal business, do you two have something against each other? It's just that whenever you're together, there seems to be a sort of uneasy angst radiating from your words and actions."  
  
"Clever goil," the younger replied. From a pocket on his vest, he brought out a pebble and threw it across the the river below, the tiny stone skipping across the blue surface five times before submerging. His emerald green eyes remained fixated on the water and were colder than a bothersome frostbite. The concentration to which he focused all his energy seemed to take a toll on him.  
  
"Runner?"  
  
He snapped out of his reverie and passed a hand through his hair. "Listen, I aint got the time right now tah talk about this. I'se gots tah be headin out. C-ya!" He waved to her and walked on by.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Spot rolled his eyes at the sight of Rosary's face being covered by a book, as it had been for the past hours! Was she ever not reading? He had brought her to Tibby's to eat, not to escape into senseless fantasy worlds with fake characters. He sat down across from her and waited for her attention. She did not give it to him. "Heya! Is youse gunna order something tah eat or do I'se gotta guess what ya usually have fer lunch?" She continued reading. "I'se talking tah youse!" Still ignoring him. "ROSARY!"  
  
She looked up from the book and smiled. "Now, was it so hard to say my name? You address me like I'm a nobody. I would appreciate it if you did not. And I would like a simple house salad please. No tomatoes." Spot groaned and walked to a counter to put in the order. When Rosary was almost sure she would experience no more interruptions, she continued reading. Unfortunately, she did not get pass three sentences before two boys approached her shyly. The first she remembered as the pickpocket who had betrayed her to Spot the other day. The second was a shorter Italian she had never seen before, but whose warm brown eyes made her hide behind the front covers of "Crime and Punishment" to hide her deep blushing.  
  
The pickpocket spoke first. "Uhm, I never got the chance tah apologize fer lyin tah youse, when, uh, ya know. But I'se wanted ya tah knows that I was really sorry. I didn't want tah do it, but I had no choice, and, uh, I'se just really really sorry."  
  
"It's all right," the girl nodded. "You don't have to feel guilty about it...uhm, what's your name?"  
  
"Snitch." She laughed at the name's appropriateness. "Oh, and this is me pal, Race. He wanted tah me youse." Snitch nudged his friend's side with a wink and then turned away to join his other Manhattan friends, leaving Race with Rosary.  
  
The boy sat down beside Rosary nervously and tried to think of something to disrupt the uncomfortable silence that had engulfed them. Noticing the book she was reading, he said to her in Italian, "Walking along the crowded row, He met the one he used to know."  
  
Rosary was astonished by the exact quoting; it was from the end of chapter one. "I never knew of a newsie who was learned in literary aspects. Have you read this novel before?"  
  
"Twice," answered Race, feeling more confident. "It was me mother's favorite book and after she passed away a few years ago, I thought I'd give it a try and see what it was all about. I actually enjoyed it too, but don't tell any of the guys in heah that. They's find out youse like reading, and they label ya as a freak." He risked a look into her eyes and his heart leapt at their beauty. For a moment, he was at a lost for words. "So, youse, uh...youse, uh, new around these parts?"  
  
She looked at Spot, socializing with Jack Kelly, and wondered whether he would mind her telling the truth. She decided she would take no chances. "You could say that."  
  
"I thought so. I would remember a lovely face such as yours." They both blushed this time and Rosary bit her lip to keep her already foolish grin from expanding. "Anyways, here comes Spot with your food. It was nice meeting you." And in Italian, he added, "I hope it won't be the last time we talk."  
  
She mumbled something pleasant in the same language, but her words slurred from her embarrassment and he was not able to make it out. When he had turned his back on her, she let out a wistful sigh and did not even acknowledge Spot when he placed the salad she had requested in front of her. He followed her gaze and upon figuring out her newfound object of affection, he shook his head. "Goils."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Flame leaned against the bricked walls of an alley in Queens, awaiting word from his two messenger newsies, Falcon and Tracks. A frigid wind whipped against his already red cheeks and he blew hot air onto his hands to keep them from freezing. It was almost time for his plans to come into order and at their nearing commencement, he became rather impatient.  
  
"Where are those idiots?" He paced the length of the alley and then assumed a seat atop a garbage can. If they did not show up anytime soon, he would have to make assumptions, and though that fact did not upset him too much, he had learned from past experiences that they were not altogether safe.  
  
Luckily, less than three minutes later, tall Falcon and curly-haired Tracks came running towards their leader in great excitement.  
  
"So did Brooklyn buy the story?" Flame jumped from where he was sitting and grinned eagerly.  
  
"They shoah as hell did," Falcon answered, delighted to be able to bring good news. "Me and Trackah ran into Tibby's like we'se seen ghost or sumthin and we told Spot that youse were thrown into the Refuge and he actually believed it and he got pretty pissed and it was alls I could do tah keep from laughing at the bum and..."  
  
Flame held up a hand. "Whoah, Falcon. Don't ever become a writer! One fact at a time, please! Which borough is he sending to us?"  
  
"The Bronx!" Tracker exclaimed. "He's sendin the Bronx!"  
  
He smiled, pleased. "Good job, fellahs."  
  
It was all solid now. Soon the Bronx would come barging into Queens expecting to rescue the innocent newsies that had supposedly fallen prey to Harlem, only to find themselves ambushed on all sides by Harlem and their newly united alliance, none other than Queens itself.  
  
Flame was indeed ashamed of having to deceive Spot Conlon, a guy he had befriended for over four years. But after one of his own newsies had been killed earlier today by a Harlem gang, he had no choice but to succumb to the borough's demands. The way they were fortifying their strength, he doubted the other newsie even stood a chance against them. And so Flame had switched sides in the battle. Naturally, it was killing him inside, but he had to do what was best for his followers.  
  
"Falcon. Trace. Get ready. Tonight, the real war for power begins."  
  
* * * * *  
  
REEEEEEEEEEEEEEVIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW!!! PLEASE REVIEW!! Can everyone who read this chapter take out a minute to send me some words? Please? Your REVIEWS really encourage me to write quicker and update sooner, so let's see a whole bunchies this time around, mmkay? : ) Thanks, goils! I love youse!!! 


	6. Ya Look Alot Like Him

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me. They in fact belong to Disney. However, some exceptions to that last idea are Rosary and Runner who belong to ME. So please do not sue me all ye Disney supporters because I am too broke. Oh, and Marcello is mine too. :) And Piper, and Patches, and Cherry. Ramon is mines too. Same goes for Falcon and Tracks. And add Jay, Robin, and Lefty to the list.  
  
A.N.: This is just a WaRnInG to the readers of this chapter, there is intense language in this addition of the story and if you are offended by that, I apologize for the inconvenience. If you do skip this chapter because of the profanity, I hope it will not stop you from reading the later chapters. Hope everyone has fun reading! : )  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Rosary sat by herself alongside the front gates of the Manhattan Distribution Center as Spot bought his usual hundred papers. She had no idea why he was selling in Manhattan today, moreover why he had taken her with him, but it mattered not to her for she was still swamped in the invented world of "Crime and Punishment". Now reading into part two of the novel, she was oblivious to the loud raucous the newsies were making.  
  
Jack too a seat beside his best friend Spot, who was busy counting his change, and began skimming the lesser articles throughout the morning edition of Pulitzer's press. A few minutes later, his face was plastered into lines of disbelief. "Fuck!"  
  
Spot smirked at the outburst. "Bad headlines, Jacky-boy?"  
  
"Ya better wipe that stupid ass grin off yer face and read the story on page two on the bottom left."  
  
Spot gave him a confused look but opened one of his papers to the specified page nonetheless and let his eyes roam over the words of the column Jack pointed out. Blink, having overheard the conversation, was already reading the contents of the story aloud. "In a disastrous battle last night between hundreds of newsboys, over thoity youths became the victims of major injuries ranging from fractured bones tah concussions. Five boys, the youngest havin been only of eleven years of age, received serious blows from a firearm and unfortunately passed away before a medical crew could administah tah them. The accused party of the conflict was none other than the infamous Harlem Gang; half of its followers are currently imprisoned in the state detention center. Police are yet suspicious as tah whether certain newsboys of the Queens borough should be convicted of the moiders alongside their Harlem companions."  
  
While Snitch and Mush commended Blink on his good reading, Spot stared at the paper, unable to believe what had just been said. "Youse gotta be shitting me! Who writes this crap? They's got the story wrong, that's fer shoah. Queens aint allied wid Harlem, we'se gots proof! They fuckin came tah us fer help just yesterday!"  
  
"Something's wrong heah," Jack complained. "It's as if Marcello's gunna keep killin people until he makes the front page! I mean, an eleven year old?"  
  
"If we'se don't do anything about it," said Race, "they's gunna keep walkin all over our friends like trash! We'se could take 'em right now! Let's beat the crap outta the scabs!"  
  
Spot thought for a moment. "Something about this whole business is botherin me." He rose to his feet, glanced to the top of a nearby building, and whistled three piercing notes that punctured the air like a sharp needle. Seconds after the sound, a small boy appeared upon the roof of the edifice and looked down in expectation. The Brooklyn leader motioned for the boy to come to him and as the latter climbed down a fire escape, Jack laughed.  
  
"Gees, d'ya got boids all over the city?"  
  
Spot laughed and walked up to his one of many messenger newsies once the boy was on the sidewalks. "Jay, go tah Queens and ask the boys ovah there whether the Bronx ever showed up. If they's did, there's no reason why there woulda been so much chaos last night."  
  
Taking precautions, Jay stepped back and flexed his muscles in case his leader decided to strike out in anger. "Uh, didn't Robin tell youse? Queens toined on the Bronx once they's showed up tah help! It was crazy! No one knew what was going on! Latah, Robin asked Flame what was going on, and ya know what Flame said? 'Screw Brooklyn, they's going tah hell'. He joined Harlem.....youse aint gunna punch me, are ya?"  
  
Spot did not even hear the question. Flame had joined up with Harlem? How was that even possible? Flame was the one who had despised the gang with the utmost revulsion! "Fuckin bastards! I'se had enough of this shit. If Flame wants tah go sell his soul tah the devils, I don't give a damn. I'se gunna go straight tah Harlem and show Marcello some real competition!" He stormed off then, shoving away any who tried to hold him back and ignoring any who called after him. He turned the corner at the entrance of the distribution center and thought of all the ways he would reshape Marcello's head. Suddenly, he felt a small hand enter his own and pull him back. He was ready to snarl at the one who dared do such a thing, until he saw who it was. "Rosary? What are ya doing?"  
  
"You can't go to Harlem, Spot. It is much too unsafe right now." Her glassy eyes seemed filled with sadness, but also complacency at the same time, and the Brooklyn leader slowly softened from her look. And he hated that fact. "They expect you to come marching into their place ready to strangle someone. You have to be smart and wait it off, though. Don't let them play with you."  
  
"Listen goil, youse don't...."  
  
She placed the fingers of her free hand upon his lips to quiet him. She had done it before her mind could object, and now that she actually saw the result, it scared her. She had never been this close to Spot since they had first met. She could feel his rough breathing brush up against her skin, yet she found that she did not mind. Their noses were less than an inch apart, their lips closer than either would have liked. "For your own sake," she whispered, "please don't go." It was uncomfortable to let him know that she cared about him, even if it was a feigned concern.  
  
Spot gently took both her hands in his and looked at her indifferently, unsure as to how to react to her worrying. Was this not the same girl who had been insulting him mere hours ago? He pushed past her with a groan, collected his purchased papers from where he had earlier thrown them, and walked off towards Brooklyn saying not a word to anyone. Rosary looked at the Manhattan newsies gathered about, and then trailed off after him.  
  
"Who is that goil?" David asked.  
  
"I don't know. I'se seen goils who could shut Spot up wid challenging woids," said Blink, "but never goils who could shut him up wid just looks."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Runner could smell death perforating the air as he approached the Harlem Lodging House where eight newsies were sitting upon the curb of a sidewalk gambling in an intense poker game. While walking, he constructed a mental list of things he needed to do. First off, he definitely needed a new name. Just as popular as Spot was, so was the widespread knowledge that Runner was his cousin, the benefit here being that even though newsies everywhere were acquainted with his name, less than one fifth of their population actually knew the details on his appearance. Secondly, he needed a believable story. It would not be wise to claim all his relatives deceased, for though many such cases roamed throughout New York, most newsies simply came from broken down homes. Last, he needed an attitude problem, something that would not make him appear so vulnerable. Being short for his age, jeers were common, but he could not tolerate that in someone else's territory.  
  
One of the newsies playing cards, a tall blonde with dark eyes, nudged a friend and pointed at Runner as he came their way. "Youse shoah is a cute one," he said with a cigarette between his lips.  
  
Runner tried his best to keep from hurling at the unusual compliment. He had not counted on having to deal with these sorts of issues. "Where's yer leadah around heah, or is youse the sad excuse fer one?"  
  
"Oh, a little spunk too. I like that." The blonde clumsily got to his feet and blew smoke into the younger newsie's face. "What's a sweet face like youse doing on the bad ol' streets, huh?"  
  
Runner glared at him. "Me business is me own. Now I'll ask youse one more time, where's yer leadah?"  
  
"Lefty, get outta the kid's face," a voice ordered from behind. Lefty blew a kiss at Runner with a snicker and then rejoined his friends at the curb. Spot's cousin found himself looking into the sinister face of yet another Harlem newsie, this one taller and more built, and it did not take him too long to realize that the one who stood before him was Marcello himself. "I'se the leadah in dese parts. Whad'dya want?"  
  
"I'se looking fer woik and I figured I'd try sellin papes."  
  
Marcello eyed him with great skepticism. "Where's youse from?"  
  
"New Joisey. After the bulls down there beat the crap outta me faddah, I'se moved in wid an aunt of mines. I'se gotta make me own living, though, gotta be the man of the house. So I'se gunna be a newsie. Youse gots a problem wid that?"  
  
"Coise not," the leader replied, "but we'se gots a few prerequisites fer kids tah be newsies, and ya aint no exception. Youse know Spot Conlon?" Because, naturally, anyone wanting to be a newsie in Harlem, had to know Spot Conlon.  
  
The question caught Runner off guard and he nearly blurted out his relations to Spot. "Ya mean the Brooklyn fag? Who hasn't hoid of that bastard?"  
  
Marcello and his newsies laughed, however, Lefty seemed to take offense at the crude words. "Ya sound like youse were swindled by him!"  
  
"I don't need a reason tah hate him," Runner said with a shrug. "The little bitch talks shit about how he's the greatest thing tah ever happen tah mankind, but he's nothing but a fuckin wanna-be. He thinks he's all authoritative, but hell, I'll tell him right tah his face that he's full of it." What terrified the young newsie the most was that the things he was saying came straight from his heart. They were disgraces he had locked within him, feelings he had never wanted to express, yet in setting them free, he discovered an addictive power. He discovered peace with himself. Worse of all, he discovered a growing hatred for his own cousin.  
  
"Youse look a lot like him, anyone ever told ya that?"  
  
Runner rolled his eyes. "C'mon, it's me foist day heah and youse already insulting me?"  
  
Marcello grinned as he draped an arm over Runner's shoulder. "I think youse rise above the poifect example of a Harlem newsie.Welcome tah me brood."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Spot rested his arms on the railing of the Brooklyn Bridge and looked out towards the horizon at the setting sun. "Ya know, yer the foist person who's been able tah calm me down from soaking someone. Me boys is gunna think I'se a pansy."  
  
"I apologize," Rosary replied, as she assumed his same position beside him. "Those were not my intentions. I didn't want to see you walk into a trap." She put her hand over his. "You should really learn to control your temper."  
  
"I know," was all he said back. He turned and studied her for the first time, taking in every feature of her body. Her face caught most of his attention, with its thinly arched eyebrows and delicate nose. Like a veil of mourning, her black hair fell over her shoulders in celestial waves that gave her a heavenly aura and he reached out to touch one of the ringlets, it feeling like a silk tassel between his fingers. She was of medium stature and had just enough femininity in her figure for Spot's approval. He stared back out at the sunset, a reddening disk retiring for the night. What was wrong with him? This girl was in his custody for political reasons, not for his pleasure!  
  
Pull yourself together, he told himself. Youse letting the goil get the best of ya. He straightened up and gave her a condescending look. "Ya ever question me in front of anybody again and I swear youse'll regret it!" He burned into her skin with his sharp blue eyes, feeling himself melt when he was met with her sensitive gaze. "Let's get back tah Brooklyn," he said quickly, for he feared he might pull the girl into his arms had he looked at her a second more.  
  
* * * * *  
  
THroW me a BoNe, please? REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVIEEEEEEEEEEEW!!! Please please please??? Send in those nice reviews of yours? Did ya like it or not? Huh huh huh? Tell me, I MUST know!!! SUBMIT a REVIEW!!!! 


	7. The Undesired Murder

DISCLAIMER: The characters still do not belong to me. : ( But Rosary and Runner, Marcello and Ramon, Piper and all the others not found in Newsies do, so HA!  
  
A.N.: Hmm, how long has it been? Well, sorry for the delay. Not only could I not decide where to take this story next, once I had, my computer crashed, thus deleting ALL my files! After much crying, I finally got back to writing. :sigh: Thanks to all the reviewers, by the way, you guys are the greatest! Enjoy Chapter Eight!  
  
  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
  
  
Runner awoke with a start a few mornings later and gasped at the taunting memories that had reigned his nightmares during sleep. He had not thought of such things for months now, at least not as vividly and horrific as they had been recounted in his mind. The piercing screams, the frigid winds, his heart thudding within his chest at record speeds, and...the gunshot that still echoed in his ears.  
  
His body shuddered and nearly gave out, much as it had those long years ago. Fighting back bitter tears, he bit his lip and closed his eyes against the pain. When he reopened them, he found himself being watched from across the bunkroom by that intolerable newsie he loathed called Lefty. He groaned and swung his feet over the edge of his bed, giving his morning grogginess time to wear off.  
  
"Sweet face, looks like ya had yerself a lil' nightmare there. Need someone tah comfoit youse?"  
  
Runner did not know how long he could take this and it clearly showed by the way he coiled into himself, flinching at Lefty's touch. "Ah, no. Even if I did, I'se shoah as hell wouldn't get it from a guy who makes me stomach toin." Speaking quite candidly, he would not get it from a guy, period.  
  
Lefty was obviously hurt by the words, but had not the time to offer a comeback to the insult for at that moment, Marcello and three others stormed into the bunkroom with purpose and beheld Runner with disdainful looks that stopped the younger boy's heart instantly.  
  
"W-what's the mattah?" he asked, steadying himself from trembling.  
  
"Why don't youse tell us," Marcello replied. "Don't ya evah listen tah the news around ya, kid? One of me boys toined scab on us! Ya know what that means?"  
  
"Listen, I'se aint..."  
  
"It means damn Eliezer's gunna get his brains blown out!"  
  
Runner froze, a huge sigh of relief escaping his mouth. A minute more and he would have blacked out from the interrogation! "Who's Eliezer?"  
  
"It don't mattah. I want 'im dead." Marcello unhooked a pistol from the belt around his waist and tossed it to Runner monotonously. "Considerin youse eligible fer me gang, we'se gotta initiate ya. Today, kid, ya gunna kill yer foist man."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Rosary studied the small makeshift calendar situated atop a desk in Spot's room with curious eyes. With Christmas speedily approaching, she had assumed the days would be filled with meaningful chores to achieve, or special events the Brooklyn leader did not want to forget. Yet the only date that seemed to have any significance on the calendar was that of December 19th, for around the box separating this number from the rest was drawn a red star, a type of commemoration of something, but what? Nothing else on the piece of paper offered clues to this newfound mystery, lest she deciphered the scribbles along the edges or the initials "P. T. C." at the bottom of the page. She wondered what the letters stood for, what Spot's real name was.  
  
She was interrupted from her guessing game when the same leader she pondered upon suddenly came to waking. He stretched and yawned on his top bunk and rubbed his weary eyes with four fingers. When he noticed the girl staring at him, he straightened and looked away. "What are ya doing up so early?"  
  
"I was bored." She looked back at the calendar and rested her chin onto the palm of a hand to hide her smile. Spot had been warming up to her as of late, or perhaps it was merely her imagination, but they seemed to be getting along quite well nonetheless. "What's so special about December 19th? You have it marked on your calendar here."  
  
Having been descending the old-fashioned ladder on the side of the bunks, Spot lost control of his hands and fell halfway down with a loud thud. He regained his composure soon after, though, and ran to the desk on quick feet to investigate the matter. "I can't believe he wrote that on there!"  
  
"Well, whoever you're speaking of, he did not write anything down. There's only a star to mark the date. And again, whoever you're speaking of, why is he writing on your calendar?"  
  
"It aint me calendar; it belongs tah Runnah." He combed strands of his hair out of his eyes and glared at the paper. "I can't believe that damn kid wrote that on there!"  
  
Rosary sighed at the lack of information she was receiving. "Well, if it's his calendar, I suppose he can do with it whatever he pleases. How did he come across it, if you don't mind me asking?"  
  
"Some boys from Queens was givin them out tah advertise employment fer their factory and Flame came all the way over heah tah indulge us wid a few." He walked into his private washroom to scrub his face and fix his hair while Rosary remained behind. Something occurred to her then. If Flame was acquainted with Runner, and Flame had recently joined sides with Queens, and Runner had recently 'joined sides' with Queens as well, would not both boys eventually confront each other? Was Flame a good enough friend to not rat out on his best friend's younger cousin? She doubted it. As a matter of fact, she expected the leader of Queens to turn Runner in at the first sight of the boy. Had Spot come to this conclusion, though? Was he aware of the catalyst he had sent his cousin into? As clouded as his mind was, she thought not.  
  
"Spot, I don't think youse realize something."  
  
Spot entered back into the room with his hair combed back under his hat and began putting on a blue shirt. "Listen, I'se aint got time fer ya philosophy tidbits. I'se gots papes tah sell and if I don't get 'em now, I'se gunna starve."  
  
Rosary remained persistent and stood to her feet. "Spot, there's a problem!"  
  
The Brooklyn leader sighed at the likely exaggerations and turned towards her as he fixed his suspenders onto his shoulders. "What is the problem, Rosary?"  
  
"I think Runner's life may be in trouble."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Runner had never held a gun in his hands and the weight of the one he know carried seemed to drag him down with future burdens he would never be able to shed from his heart. Kill a man? Was Marcello insane? The worse the boy had ever down to another human being was the breaking of bones! But death? He shook his head for the fifth time that morning. He would not do it, he simply couldn't! He had morals to maintain and the opportunity to give Spot a head start in this war between the newsie boroughs was not of enough worth to him to threaten the ideals he had always clung to.  
  
Marcello noticed Runner lagging behind and stopped walking to allow the boy to catch up. "Kid, ya gotta be discreet! What is youse tryin tah do, get us caught?"  
  
Sure, why not? Runner thought in his mind. Maybe if he took off in a mad dash right this moment, he could escape from the crime he would be forced to commit. Though, the boys surrounding him were quite larger than he was, and could probably capture him before he was even a block away. "Where are we going?"  
  
"Up the fire escape. Youse gunna kill him from the top of this building, see? It'd be bettah that way; less chance of youse gettin caught by the bulls."  
  
Runner groaned at the consideration. He knew gangs closely resembled a tightly knitted family of ruffians, but this was absurd! Even so, he climbed the iron steps, and each time his foot rested on the platform, the vibration resounded in his mind like clamoring bells.  
  
"Ya look tense," Lefty softly said to him, concern written all over his face.  
  
"Maybe it's cause I am." The young newsie shrugged off the hand put on his back that was meant to condole him and continued following Marcello, feeling as if we were traversing his very own death march.  
  
Ramon bit down on his cigarette excitedly and grinned. "There he is, there he is! See the bastard by the apple cart? That's who youse is aiming fer, alright?" He stood aside and rubbed his hands together briskly, anxious to see the murder take place.  
  
Runner frowned at his heartless amusement. "Ya know, maybe someone of more experience should do this. I'se only a kid compared tah youse, and you'd probably find more pleasure in doing it anyways." He held the gun up, half expecting someone to willingly take it from him, but they only laughed at his supposed joke and patted him on the back.  
  
"I'se gots faith in ya, kid," said Marcello.  
  
"Suit yaself." Runner faced the boy named Eliezer, countless stories below him, going about his business across the street oblivious to the ones who planned to end his life with a single weapon. What a tragedy to wake up and not be aware of the fact that your life would end before the sun retired for the night. What a tragedy to not be able to bid your friends farewell before you were thrust into everlasting sleep. Runner relaxed himself and held the gun up at eyelevel, unable to keep the pistol from shaking in his nervous hand. The metal felt chilling and seemed to seethe into the marrow of his bones in warning. He curled his fingers around the trigger and his head began spinning in disorderly revolutions. Behind him, he knew the Harlem newsies were awaiting the fulfillment of his initiation.  
  
He stepped forward and closed one eye for better view, but then stepped back and shook his head. Again, he repeated this action until Marcello became impatient. "Do it already, huh? We'se aint got all day!"  
  
"Yea, do it!"  
  
"C'mon, we'se gots things tah do!"  
  
Would it insult them if Runner said he could care less? "Listen, I'se can't do this. I mean, ya wouldn't want me tah anyways. I'd just mess it up." As soon as those words were uttered from his mouth, he was looking down the barrel of Marcello's own gun. He laughed tentatively. "Heh, on second thought. I think I'se just regained me confidence." He turned back around and gulped down hard. He could no longer feel his fingertips; he could barely feel his being.  
  
He outstretched his arm and pointed the gun at Eliezer, peacefully eating away the red skin of an apple. Idiot, he cursed the boy. Why'd ya have to stay in Harlem when you'd know Marcello and his goons would be after ya ass? As before, his fingers felt the life-threatening trigger of the firearm and were positioned for attack.  
  
He switched his weight from one foot to the other and proceeded to close one eye while squinting the other. All of a sudden, a sharp pain clenched his heart and he gasped at the agony. No, he could not do this! His hand was wavering about too wildly in any case! He lifted his foot to step back, but then, the unthinkable happened.  
  
"SHOOT THE DAMN BASTARD!!!"  
  
Marcello's roar had caught him so off guard that he jumped forward startled with gun still in hands and tightened his fingers to release the immediate tension. And in doing so, he himself had done the one thing he had feared all the while. The firearm exploded with a thunderous pop and a single bullet soared through the air, destined to kill.  
  
"Ahhh!" It was more like the scream of one being torn limb from limb, but who was anyone to judge the pain of a bullet lodging through one's chest?  
  
Runner's throat contracted and he collapsed to the ground of the rooftop, his eyes still glued on the boy sprawled out on the streets with blood gushing profusely from a chest wound. No, no, no, he kept telling himself. It was only another nightmare haunting him! It had not happened! NO!!! On his knees, he began to sob and his stomach gurgled with discomfort. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to keep his mouth shut, but before he could prevent it, he vomited onto the cement before him, the thick liquid spewing out into a mess that he fainted onto once the world was nothing more than a black void.  
  
* * * * *  
  
:GASP: Did Runner just murder someone? Ya know what that means! REVIEW TIME!!!! As Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers" would say, THROW ME A FRIGGIN BONE!!! Muahahahahahha!!!!! SUBMIT SUBMIT SUBMIT!!!! Love ya all! 


	8. A Diversion

DISCLAIMER: The characters still do not belong to me. : ( But Rosary and Runner, Marcello and Ramon, Piper and all the others not found in Newsies do, so HA!  
  
A.N.: THanKS for ALL the REVIEWS!!!!!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
  
  
  
  
Runner screamed at the top of his lungs as he plummeted down a dizzying well of shame and indignity. Struggling against the hands that tried to hold him back, he sat up on his elbows drenched in sweat and cried out in anguish.  
  
"Would ya restrain the kid 'fore he kills himself?!"  
  
Runner recognized the voice as that of Marcello's. Two more hands grabbed his shoulders and yanked him back, his head nearly hitting the wooden headboard of his bunk. The young newsie began to have a coughing fit until his breathing came out in wheezing noises that he could not control.  
  
"Silvah, calm down. Youse is having a noivous break down!"  
  
Runner's small body convulsed and he shivered violently. He was so confused. What was happening and why? He screamed out again and attempted to sit up, but was only brought back down by the boys around him. "Let me up, let me up!" He yelled, coughing between the words.  
  
"Silvah, listen tah me. Youse needs some rest and if ya..."  
  
"Who the hell is SILVER!?" After he had shouted out the question, his lungs felt as if they were on fire. With his blurry vision, he saw Marcello kneel at his bedside and grin.  
  
"Considerin how well ya handled that gun yesterday, we'se decided tah name ya that. We'se can't keep callin ya 'kid'. Especially since youse been initiated into our gang. Killin ya foist man, ya oughta be proud of yaself."  
  
Runner nearly swallowed his tongue. "HE'S DEAD?!" He had still clung onto that one hopeful possibility that the shot was not fatal. But now it was all ruined. He was a murderer! The one who had stood up to Spot in front of all the newsies in order to promote peace between the boroughs was a murderer!  
  
The Harlem newsies laughed. "Of coise he's dead! Ya did good, Silvah. Ya did good."  
  
"Then why do I'se feel so horrible?" He clutched the ends of his bed sheet and swayed back and forth. Was this some type of post-murder sickness he was contracting? "I feel like I'se gunna..." He vomited onto the floor at his right before he could finish the announcement.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Rosary tried to keep her distance from Spot Conlon as they walked to the Manhattan lodging house, but he looked so despondent that she was filled with an urge to reach out and place a comforting hand on his shoulder. Ever since she had related to him his cousin's possible trouble with Harlem and Queens, the Brooklyn leader seemed distanced, as if his mind was in another world. She made an attempt with kind words, but he only grumbled and trudged along, the cap of his hat casting shadows over his eyes.  
  
The Italian girl sighed and looked ahead of her. A well-built, husky figure was staggering about in the streets in a familiar drunken step and she squinted her eyes against the sun to better see him. She gasped; it was her uncle! What was he doing in Manhattan, though?! She had no time to further ponder upon the matter. If her uncle saw her, that would ruin Marcello's plans, for the man would take her back unto her home at once. And though she cared nothing for Marcello's schemes, she did not want anyone hurt as an end result.  
  
"Spot, this way!" She grabbed the boy's shirt and pulled him into an alley so roughly, Spot thought he would crash to the ground from the force.  
  
"What the hell is youse doing?!"  
  
Rosary pushed him back into a building wall and listened for the steps of her uncle's massive boots. When their thudding resounded louder and louder, she froze. She needed a distraction, so that the man would not recognize her face, and so thought to hide, but the time was too late. So she did the next best thing. She pressed her lips against those of Spot's and held him in that embrace throughout the pounding of her heart and the trembling of her hands, letting her hair fall over their faces.  
  
Spot's eyes widened and he tried to back away but seeing how he was up against a wall, there was no escape from the sudden turn of events. When the girl pulled away, he stared at her speechlessly. "Uh...youse, a...youse uh, okay?"  
  
"Someone I did not want to see was coming our way and that small act was merely a diversion to keep them at bay." She peered around the corner of the alley and watched her uncle make his way to Harlem. "I apologize if you were led on in any way."  
  
"Led on?" Spot rolled his eyes to hide his surprise and smirked. "Don't worry about it. I'se used tah goils wanting more than a friendship wid me." He winked at her and started his way back onto the streets.  
  
Rosary glared at him, repulsed by his egotism.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Flame, along with Falcon and Tracker, neared the Harlem lodging house in steady, self-assured strides like the gallant walk of one of noble blood. He cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, releasing the tension his body was stressed with, and continued with his pace. A gang of boys in their late teenage years were already gathered in a tight circle just aside a street lamp, their mischievous looks conveying nothing but mayhem. A particular pair of green eyes burned in the pale light like glowing embers, sparkling green gems that could stop one's blood flow.  
  
"Spot?!"  
  
Marcello looked at his ally and laughed. "Nah, that aint Spot. This is one of me newest, Silvah. The kid is a prodigy wid a gun; ya watch yer ass, huh?" His boys burst into laughter and he drew energy from the support.  
  
Flame nodded knowingly and stayed behind while Marcello ordered everyone to filter into his reserved meeting room to discuss their next plan of attack against Manhattan and Brooklyn. When he was sure every boy was out of earshot, the Queens leader cocked his head to one side and smirked at the Spot look-alike that leaned nonchalantly against a wall across from him. "Well, I'se never thought I'd see the day when the Conlons toined against each other."  
  
"Heya Flame, how's it rollin?" The two boys spit shook and Runner glanced away. "Me betrayal's still in question. Get ya facts straight 'fore youse jump tah conclusions." He took a long drag on his cigarette, the exhaling smoke curling around his face, stealing his innocence.  
  
"Youse shoah is bittah."  
  
The younger shrugged. "I'se aint got nuthin left tah be."  
  
"So what's ya story?" Flame asked with crossed arms. "Youse and Spot were best friends, weren't ya?"  
  
"The hell we'se were. He's the reason I'se heah; he's the reason for every damn thing that happens." He bit down on the cigarette and fumed.  
  
The Queens leader took a step forward. "Ya don't still blame him fer what happened, do ya?"  
  
Runner easily took offense. "What are ya talkin about!?"  
  
"Oh, c'mon. Don't play this naïve crap wid me. I was there too, Runnah. I was there when youse cried ya eyes out fer months. I was there when they's thought you wouldn't make it through the wintah. Ya gotta get over it already; this was a friggin year ago!!!"  
  
"How can I get over it!?" Runner yelled. "It happened 'cause of me and Spot, mostly him! If he hadn't come up wid the smart ass idea of quittin school, she'd still be heah!"  
  
Flame grabbed his shoulders and shook him firmly. "Ya gotta stop blaming Spot fer what happened. It wasn't his fault; she went out that night on her own will. Nothing youse coulda done would've stopped that, and until youse realize that, ya gunna be the most miserable man alive."  
  
Runner shoved him away and glared at him through teary eyes. "It wouldn't have been her will if we'se weren't lost!! It's all his fault, and I'll fuckin moidah him fer ruining my life!!!" Before Flame could strike him for such foul words, he ran off into the night, stumbling more than once onto the ground in all his depressive sobs.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Awww, light is being shed on the December 19th mystery!!! Ya know what that means? REVIEWS!!!!!!! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW!!!!!!! LOVE YOUSE!!! 


	9. Milking A Cow

DISCLAIMER: Nope, the characters have yet to belong to me, except for Runner, Rosary, and the others not in Newsies. Disney owns the rest. :sigh:  
  
A.N.: The update took a long time because I was in New York for XMAS! YaaaaaY! Merry Christmas, by the way, to all my reviewers out there! I hope you goils had a great a holiday, and here's wishes to enjoy a New Year. :Spot and Jack blow kisses to everyone: On another note, has anyone seen 'Gangs of New York' yet? I've been wanting to see it for a while, as it pertains to this story in a way, but I haven't gotten a chance! :pouts: Will someone tell me if it's really good? Thanks ya'll!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Spot lowered himself onto the booth beside Blink, giving his weary legs a rest, and risked a glance at Rosary across the restaurant as she leaned over to give Racetrack a peck on the cheek in warmhearted greeting. His heart seemed to quiver with jealousy at this second long action, and it made him feel less powerful as the leader everyone feared across the state. Those lips...they were soft and inviting. When the girl had kissed him, he experienced an exuberant wanting surge through him. As much as he tried to resist the warmth, he had wanted to deepen the kiss. He had wanted to lean her backwards in his arms and be consumed with passionate desire.  
  
He groaned at the ideas. 'It was just a diversion,' he thought grumpily. That fact seemed all for the better. He hated how this girl reached out to his heart with invisible tendrils and squeezed it mercilessly, as if to drain away all the hatred that had once dwelled there. She was slowly getting to him, and he was aware of it all the while, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Try as he did, her innocent eyes still filled him with shame, her childlike smile still awakened in him forgotten joy, and her remarkable beauty still stirred up feelings within him he had never thought he had.  
  
He found himself staring at her now, studying the class by which she conducted herself. The proper posture of a lady, and the delicate handling of the silverware before her. Suddenly, she happened to look his way and catch his look. Embarrassed, he quickly diverted his gaze to the menu he was holding and nearly blushed.  
  
Rosary furrowed her eyebrows at this. What had all that been about? She waited for Spot to put down his menu, but seeing how he was now entranced by the selections he had to choose from for lunch, she returned to the conversation she was presently having with Race.  
  
"So how's that book comin along?"  
  
"Ah, quite nicely, thank you," she replied with a grin. "I've come to the last few chapters of the novel and I can hardly wait to finish! It's been an enjoyable read so far."  
  
Race laughed at her obvious pleasure of reading. "Ya know, I'se never knew a newsgoil who talked as proper as youse. How is it that ya don't have the rough accents Harlem has practically perfected?"  
  
"Oh it's actually quite simple. As my mother believes in a proper education for young ladies, she pays a woman to give me private lessons in grammar, social studies, mathematics, and the whole lot. I'm on break, though, for the holidays and so I sell papers during this time to help my family maintain a stable income."  
  
She took a sip of the soda pop she had ordered and sat back comfortably in her booth. She wondered how things were fairing back home with her devastating absence. What had Marcello said to their mother to comfort the aged woman? It was all schemes, she knew it. A believable story about how Rosary had probably taken up an internship at a learning institution had most definitely been devised by the clever gang leader.  
  
"Ya muddah sounds like me uncle. He's always tryin tah get me tah come ovah his restaurant for family dinners and such. But I'se told 'im I like the newsie life, ya know? He's offered me a room in his house, an education, everything youse could imagine! But it just wouldn't be the same without me pals at my side."  
  
Rosary sighed in content. She loved being in Race's company. The boy was so kind and gentle, and had a wonderful personality that shone like a brilliant light. She was glad she had befriended him during her first days as a Brooklyn newsie; she did not know how she would have survived without him. With news of a monthly dance soon approaching, hosted by a kindly woman named Medda, Racetrack and her seemed a likely couple and the girl would say yes to his asking her out in an instant, assuming he did ask her- which she hoped he would. "Where does your family live?"  
  
"Actually, they's live in Harlem," he replied, just now realizing the irony of it all. "Maybe youse knows some of me cousins. The uncle I was tellin ya about was just heah too! I wish he had stayed longer so that I could've introduced ya tah him."  
  
Rosary's smiled dropped. "Your uncle was just here? As in, a few days ago, or a few minutes ago?"  
  
"Uh...two minutes at the most. Why?"  
  
"Oh my god, oh my god!" She covered her mouth with trembling hands and her eyes widened in disbelief. This could not be happening!  
  
"What's the mattah?!"  
  
She tried to regain calmness, but was far from it. Of all things to be discovered in her friendship with Race, it had to be this?! "What's his name?" she nearly cried out.  
  
"Romano..."  
  
She yelped, as if in pain. "Tony Romano..." It came out as a whisper and the dreamy look that was ever present in her eyes was immediately crushed.  
  
"Heya, how'd ya know his name? He's a neighbor of yours?" Race did not understand the graveness of the situation. What was the big deal?  
  
"No, no, no." She wanted to cry. Why could it not have been someone else? Why Race? Why the one she was steadily falling in love with? At last, she looked him in the eyes and with an exasperated air, exclaimed, "He's my uncle as well." Race only stared at her unblinkingly. "I just saw him leaving Manhattan as Spot and I were heading this way. That's why I asked you the time of his departure."  
  
Race started laughing of a sudden and slammed his hands onto the table with much happiness. "Then why are ya so sad, goil? We'se cousins! Damn, which one is youse? Marie? Elaine? Anna?"  
  
"Eva," she muttered dejectedly.  
  
"Eva!" He pulled her up from where she was sitting and threw his arms around her small frame. "Eva, I aint seen youse since we'se were little kids! Wow, I didn't even recognize ya! Youse grown up a lot." He pulled away from her, only to hug her again. "Ya probably don't remember me, I'se Anthony! I can't believe this, what a surprise!"  
  
She managed a light laugh and returned his hug. "Ah yes, Anthony. Mama' often speaks of you. I believe you're her favorite nephew, though she admits she has not seen you in over a decade!" Letting the anger fuel from her, she smacked his arm with only a slight does of playfulness. "Why did you never visit? You could've been cordial enough to at least drop in every now and then for a dinner!"  
  
His absence was not what bothered her though, but rather the fact that the pain she now felt could have been prevented had Race been an active member in the family. She was now disgusted by her feelings for him, and felt impure in a way, even though the two had never done anything beyond innocent kisses solely aimed for the cheeks.  
  
Race shrugged, not understanding anything. "What does it mattah? We'se reunited now!" He laughed and kissed the back of her hand, happy to be in the midst of a relative from his own generation.  
  
* * * * *  
  
As Rosary read the last chapter of "Crime and Punishment", she found that her mind was not focused on the story, but rather on the sad reality of her relations to Racetrack. Such a tragedy it was, having finally met someone compatible with her ways only to unearth a forgotten family tie. She glanced at Spot seated at the desk in his room, as he scribbled illegible letters on a piece of paper. That was another thing she hated; Spot Conlon acting as if her presence did not mean a single thing to him.  
  
"What are you doing?" Setting her book aside, she sat up in her bed and prayed that he would continue the conversation she had willingly began.  
  
"Milking a cow," he said sarcastically, and with disdain. "What does it look like I'se doing? I'se writin a lettah!"  
  
She was grateful that he had at least answered. Maybe the hostility was wearing off. "And who will have the honor of receiving this letter?"  
  
Spot looked back at her, hoping to see mockery in her face so that he could bark an insult out at her, but unfortunately, she was as placid as a dove. "As a mattah of fact, it's fer ya bruddah."  
  
"What does it say?!" That certainly had awakened her. She jumped out of the bed and rushed to his side, meaning to snatch the letter out of his hands. "Tell me!"  
  
"Don't get all excited," he said with a smirk. "Though I wouldn't mind youse feelin that way latah tonight." His smirked grew wicked and he reveled when she obviously felt violated. "It's mostly obscenities, but there's a few woids in there havin tah do wid me killin his sorry ass if he doesn't give me the newest addition tah his gang."  
  
"I don't think Marcello would have included your cousin into such an elite assemblage. No offense, but Runner does not look like the type who would do so much as to even think of killing someone." She crossed her arms and glared at him.  
  
Spot rolled his eyes and continued writing the letter as he spoke. "Listen, if I'se gots me a gang, I'se gunna recruit whatever kid I'se can get me hands on. Shoah Runnah probably aint killin nobody, but I wouldn't be surprised if he's the brains behind all their schemes."  
  
"What else does it say?"  
  
"Youse is so annoying, ya know that?" Nevertheless, he scanned over the sentences to pick up on anything he had missed. "Oh yea, I'se offering him a truce, but if he don't want it, I'se makin him aware that me and three or four other boroughs is gunna tear down his territory when he least expects it."  
  
Rosary looked at him incredously. "Oh yea, that's brilliant, Spot! 'Dear Marcello, could you be so kind as to send over that small blonde kid that joined your newsies not too long ago? Oh, by the way, back off or I'll murder you and all your idiotic followers. Sincerely, His High and Mighty'. If only all leaders could think like you!"  
  
"That's it, I'se had about enough..."  
  
"No, listen to me! Listen to how stupid you are being right now! Does it not dawn on you at all just how suspicious Marcello will be when you request that he send Runner to Brooklyn? I mean, here comes this seemingly nice kid who cooperates with everyone and wishes no harm, but then all of a sudden, Spot Conlon wants him? God, do you ever think, or has your brain retired from the task? It's bad enough that your cousin and you are virtually identical! Who knows what lie the kid had to make up to cover for that, now you're only putting his life in further danger!"  
  
She was going to pause to take a breath, but when she saw Spot open his mouth to object, she continued on. "And exactly what kind of truce did you even offer?" She stole the letter from him and read as much as she could before he pushed her away and recovered it. The little she had gained was enough. "Banishment?! You're going to exile him from New York? You honestly think he will accept that offer? I can't believe how you could think that's even in your power!"  
  
"Would ya shut up already?! Youse givin me a headache!" Spot grabbed her wrist and tightened his fingers around it so that she drew breath in pain. "Foist of all, if youse ever question me intelligence again, I swear tah God I'll strangle you wid me own hands. And as for me exiling ya damn bruddah, youse obviously don't know the extent of me power. I'se can have boys put in the refuge on the mere basis that I'se just don't like them. I'se can snap me fingers and have five messengers be ready tah heed my orders. I've exiled joiks before, doll face; I'se won't have a problem doing it again."  
  
She broke free from his grasp with a swift turn of her arm and stepped back. "You're a pig," she spat at him, and grabbing her pillow and blankets, she proceeded to exit the room.  
  
"Where do youse thinks ya going?!"  
  
"I much rather sleep in the girls' bunkroom and so I will." She placed her hand on the doorknob, but Spot pushed her back and blocked her way.  
  
"Ya just don't walk outta heah when ya feel like it. I'se ya leadah heah, and you'll ask me if youse can do things 'fore ya do them. Understood?"  
  
Rosary glared at him and wanted so much to put a bruise on his arrogant face. Through clenched teeth, she said, "all right then, your highness, do I have your permission to sleep elsewhere tonight?"  
  
Spot smiled at having humbled the girl and looked at the ceiling in thought. "Hmmm, any reason why ya wanna?"  
  
"I fear I may vomit from disgust if I stay in this hellhole any longer." She fully expected him to slap her hard on, or to at least shove her to the floor. But much to her surprise, he only gave her a blank look as he opened the door behind him and let her pass through.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Aww, shucks! They're back to fighting again. But look! The next chapter smells heavily of apologies and...love? Muahahaha! SUBMIT a REVIEW and you might find out soon! C'mon, kids, keep those REVIEWS rolling in! REVIEW REVIEW! Please? Please? A lot of REVIEWS for a belated Christmas Gift? Kisses from Spot for all my reviewers!!! Love ya all! 


	10. A Truce

DISCLAIMER: Nope, the characters have yet to belong to me, except for Runner, Rosary, and the others not in Newsies. Disney owns the rest. :sigh:  
  
A.N.: HaPPy NeW YeaR!!! Heya goils, thanks so much for the REVIEWS! I love youse all! newsietomboy, Kaylee, brittany, Getcha, and bl33ding p03t, you goils rock!! Keep those reviews coming along! Ah, and Kaylee, Race says he'll give youse more than a blown kiss if you're interested. *giggles*  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Patches noticed Rosary in a state of nervousness as they perambulated the walks of Brooklyn without having exchanged more than a few simple sentences. The Italian girl seemed reclusive and she dared not think it, but afraid as well. But why the fear? She had been ever bold during the weeks she suffered under Spot's reign and nothing seemed to knock her down into an apathetic void of self-pity. And then there was last night, in which Rosary had crept into the girls' bunkroom on the verge of tears, clutching her pillow and blanket protectively as if those objects were her only friends. Patches had wanted to question as to why she was not in Spot's room, but thought better of it and had decided to wait until this very morning.  
  
The short Brooklyn girl played with her hair and considered the wording of her inquiry. Should she dally around the matter, or simply be blunt? Relying on her rough-edged upbringing, she fell back on the directness newsies usually conveyed in their interrogations. "So what's going on 'tween youse and Spotty?"  
  
Rosary's stomach rumbled with pain at the new turn the conversation had taken. Spot was the last person she wanted to be conversing over! "What do you mean?"  
  
"Did he kick ya outta his room or sumthin, cause if I'se remember, weren't ya assigned the lower bunk of his bed tah sleep?"  
  
"I rather not talk about it," the other replied. "Let's just say...truth is, I don't know what to say! I try so hard, Patches. I try to be sweet and civil with him, and I try to offer my hand in friendship and care, but he always refuses me. He treats me either as if I'm a diseased prisoner or a drunken harlot sent for his amusement. And I can't bear it any longer! I want to go back home. Considering there's only ten more days until Christmas, I would very much like to spend the holiday with my family!"  
  
Patches frowned. She pitied the girl for being one of the few young ladies who had fallen under Spot's wrath. Usually the Brooklyn leader was quite the womanizer, never passing a chance to seduce a specimen of the female population with his striking eyes and irresistible good looks, not to mention the charm that glowed off him like a misty hue. "I'se sorry, I thought youse were actually gettin along. But look on the bright side, this crazy war our boys is fightin is almost over. I'se hoid stories 'bout a truce Manhattan and Brooklyn is offering ya bruddah. Maybe it'll woik out?"  
  
"A truce!" Rosary rolled her eyes at the mention of that ridiculous document Spot had been mapping out last night lacking the slightest shard of critical thinking in the doing. "Oh, I'm quite sure that will end all our problems," she said sardonically.  
  
The younger shrugged and excused herself from the conversation to run off to her selling spot where potential buyers were shuffling along in a business haze. Rosary stared after her and sighed. December 15th. Hadn't Ramon said something about meeting her this day for a recount on what was happening in the confines of the Brooklyn borough as of late? She pursed her lips and waited for any sign of him; the bookstore where they had last met just across the street but empty of any shoppers.  
  
"Mornin' sweetness," a voice from behind whispered.  
  
She spun around and groaned at the sight of Ramon. "Let's make this quick please. I have better things to do then maraud about with a flea- bitten, immoral, bloodthirsty feist."  
  
"Damn! Hanging out wid Spot shoah got youse an attitude problem," the boy snickered, grabbing the girl's hand and pulling her away from Patches' sight. "So what news d'ya bring from that miserable woild of his?"  
  
"First off, rumors have spread about a boy that Marcello has recently initiated into his gang. Is this true?" She held his gaze coolly and waited for an answer.  
  
"Shoah, the kid's name's Silvah, blonde lil' runt who wants more blood on his hands than we'se expected tah give 'im." He paused to light a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips. "Came tah us not too long ago, cursing out Spot so bad that Marcello instantly took tah the kid. Weird thing is, he looks just like Spot! You'd think the two were bruddahs!" He laughed and exhaled smoke from his nostrils. "We'se told 'im that and he got all offensive. Seems tah hate Brooklyn wid a passion if ya ask me."  
  
This baffled the girl. The descriptions did not match with Runner's personality at all! Wiping the confusion from her face, she smiled. "Well, it seems as if Spot feels...uh, threatened? Yes, threatened! He's worried by this new competition! And therefore, he wishes to meet with Ru...I mean, Silver! Silver you said his name was, correct? Yes, well he desires to meet with Silver."  
  
Ramon still maintained that skeptical look about him. Rosary did not seem to be acting like herself, it was almost as if she were hiding something. "What the hell does he want tah talk tah the kid for? Tah kill 'im?"  
  
"Of course not! He wouldn't kill him!"  
  
"Tah get 'im tah join forces wid Brooklyn?" He threw his cigarette to the ground and crushed its remaining red spark with the sole of his boot.  
  
Rosary shrugged. "Not really. He just wants to meet him I suppose. Other than that, you've undoubtedly heard of the flaw-laden truce the other boroughs will force Harlem to sign in the coming days. It speaks poorly for Marcello, as he along with the others of the gang will be banished from New York."  
  
Ramon doubled over in laughter. "Are youse serious?!" He wiped the forming tears away from his eyes and hugged himself to control the chuckles. "Oh my god! I'se can't wait tah see their lil' brigade storm tah our doors wid that paper! Shit, I'll be waiting for that day!"  
  
"Right, so anywho, there are all the details you have requested of me. When can I expect to be taken home?" She looked hopefully at him, wanting his reply to conclude that she could come to Harlem this very moment if she wished.  
  
"Ride it out a few more days, babe. Youse gots tah keep Spot distracted; you've taken 'im tah bed yet?" He grinned at her infuriated look and jumped away just in time to miss the punch she threw at him. "Damn, youse gettin spunky!" He laughed again, tipped his hat in farewell to her, and then walked away from her as if he cared nothing of her being homesick.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Spot let his fingers curl around the cold, golden knob of the door that would lead him into the Brooklyn lodging house's bunkroom for girls and felt a chill of hesitancy bolt down his spine. The room had a sad population of fifteen females, four of which Spot had once considered objects for his pleasure during his earlier years as leader. The other eleven were either lightheaded fanatical stalkers who wished he would glance their way so that they could pass out cold, sadistic cynics with a cruel bite who could care less whether Spot never stepped foot into the lodging house again, or cheerful dancing girls who claimed the leader was nothing short of a brother to them. And then there was Rosary of course who seemed to have created a category all on her own. No she was not obsessed with Spot, nor did she despise him. She was definitely not a blabbering optimist and as for being Spot's "toy"...well, that was just out of the question.  
  
Perhaps that was why fear ruled the pit of his stomach that afternoon as he stood just outside the room where the Italian girl now resided. So their first few days had been much of a struggle; that was natural. A kidnapper and his hostage usually were not on good terms so early in the game. But still roaring at each other after weeks?  
  
He admitted he was a part of the problem. A young lady could not ask for a worse overseer, for not only was Spot rude and self-involved, he also treated Rosary as if she had done him some wrong in the past, which she had not. But wasn't that a part of his personality, of who he was? He was supposed to act like a bitter jerk; it's what kept the masses fearing and respectful. There was no room for kindness.  
  
He shook his head and turned the knob, knowing that if he did not complete the action now, he never would. The room would have been engulfed in utter darkness if not for the light of a single lamp that shone beside a far window. Seeing none of his newsgirls, Spot wondered how all fifteen of them could have managed to escape from the lodging house without his knowing. Ah, but there was one who had lingered behind, and just the one he had sought out.  
  
Next to the dim lamp, Rosary sat on her new bed reading that damned book that Spot had come to hate so sourly in the passing days. Not to say that he disliked reading, for when he was younger and in school, he took to the hobby with more fervor than any of his professors had ever seen, but seeing the girl buried between the covers made him think she had no life.  
  
He sauntered over to the side of her bunk and cleared his throat. "Rosary, would youse listen tah me fer a minute?"  
  
"I'm not sure," she replied, closing the book. "Do I have your permission to listen?"  
  
"Okay, I was an ass wid the whole permission thing and I'se sorry, alright? Ya just really get tah me sometimes and it pisses me off." He leaned against a wall and watched shadows dance about the room in the dull lamplight, amazed that he had just apologized to her. He cleared his thoughts and remembered his purpose for coming to her. "So tomorrow night there's gunna be this great party at Medda's and every newsie is invited cause it's especially fer us. Since this place is gunna be empty and youse aint gunna have company if ya stay, youse is coming wid me."  
  
Rosary regarded him with wide eyes. Her French-braided pigtails set in place with peach ribbons she had borrowed from Patches only made her look all the more childish. Go to that party everyone was thrilled about with Spot Conlon? The mere idea disgusted her! She would sooner jump off the fire escape and plunge stories downward to her timely death. "I will do no such thing! Though I enjoy social events, I can hardly fathom how I could last the night having to be your date!"  
  
Spot was taken aback, but only for half a second. "Oh yea? Well lemme spell it out fer youse, doll face. I aint givin youse a choice heah. Ya either go wid me or starve fer a whole week!" He didn't think he'd actually let her go without food for that long, but it was a nice touch to the threat.  
  
"You are quite possibly the most despicable breed of...ugh!" She was at a loss for words. Nothing in her high vocabulary could describe all the emotions that were running rampant within her now. How could Spot be so cruel and uncaring? Would he actually inflict starvation upon her if she refused to accompany him?  
  
"Listen, we'se aint gotta make out, we'se aint gotta dance. Hell, we don't even gotta hold hands. I just don't trust ya enough tah leave ya heah all by yaself. It's only a few hours and it aint gunna kill youse. So tomorrow at six, be ready, huh?" And then he saw himself out the room, leaving her behind in bewilderment.  
  
Did not trust her? She rolled her eyes at the lie. Something in the way he had uttered those words spoke otherwise. She figured she'd play along with it either way. After all, it was her duty to distract the Brooklyn leader in whatever way she could. As she reached down to recover her book, a chilling thought daunted her.  
  
Was it her duty...or desire?  
  
* * * * *  
  
More to Come!! But don't forget to keep those reviews rolling in! The faster you review, the faster I update! So click that adorable purple button down yonder and throw me a bone, huh? Muahahah! Love ya all!!! 


	11. Don't Want To Make A Mistake

DISCLAIMER: Nope, the characters have yet to belong to me, except for Runner, Rosary, and the others not in Newsies. Disney owns the rest. :sigh:  
  
A.N.:  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Rosary fumbled with the lace sewed onto the red sash she wore around her waist atop a floor-scraping cotton skirt and watched the hordes of joyous newsies before her dance to their heart's content. They were definitely warmer than she was at the moment. Wearing a thin peasant blouse with a ruffled top and butterfly sleeves that ended at her elbows, her upper body shivered every time the entrance doors were opened and the chilly winds from outside allowed to come in.  
  
With a longing sigh, she watched Patches flirt with a newsboy from Manhattan and Cherry dance with an older youth who was undoubtedly enrolled in one of the finest universities in the state, just as the girl liked them. Rosary lightly laughed and turned her attention to the others that surrounded her. Beside the bar counter was that boy Jack Kelly who had been somewhat amiable to her the day of her kidnapping, and there at a table with her cousin Racetrack was the shy one who had introduced himself as Snitch. She tightened the ribbon that held her hair in a ponytail and surveyed the room farther.  
  
Her serene look suddenly turned to one of shock and disgust, for on a chair against a wall, shrouded in the shadows where the fancy show lights of the ceiling could not reach, sat Spot Conlon with a brunette straddling his lap in the most nauseating manner. There the two remained, oblivious to the mingling of steps on the dance floor and the vociferous music that blasted throughout the room in high pitches, with their lips pressed together and their hands roaming about every inch of the other's body. Rosary's heart skipped a beat and her face flushed with rage. For all she cared, the Brooklyn leader could impregnate as many girls as he wished and have as many mistresses as his hormones cared for, but what was the purpose of inviting her to this festivity if he was only going to end up spending the hours on some one-time meaningless rendezvous?!  
  
She mentally counted to ten and engaged in breathing exercises she had once been taught to release the tension that was beginning to build up between her temples. "Calm yourself, Rosary," she whispered ever so gently, but the force behind each syllable was titanic. Grabbing a portion of the cloth draped over the dining table she sat at, she squeezed the material between her hands with every last fiber of her strength until her knuckles turned a blinding white and her fingertips became unbearably sore.  
  
"Rosary, what are you doing!" She laughed then, as if her actions were the biggest joke she had ever known. She turned around and allowed herself to watch Spot as he parted the brunette's lips with his tongue and allowed his fingers to slowly creep under her shirt. "Ugh, why are you acting like this?" She stomped a foot onto the floor and fumed. "What is getting to you? So he's enjoying an affair, so what? You act as if you were jealous, as if you want to be that girl atop his lap."  
  
She winced at the thought. No, her feelings were deceiving her. Perhaps she was only experiencing lust towards the Brooklyn leader; it was nothing serious that required concern. "Why do you even look upon him so? He's the exemplary player who steals girls' hearts only to obliterate them. He cares nothing for no one, you should know that!" Yet Rosary still found herself drawn to him, magnetized by his seemingly arrogant ways. It made her wander why he lived only for himself, why he refused to become too involved.  
  
"Oh, come to grips with it," she said aloud, as she watched the brunette massage Spot's inner thighs. "You know he's quite possibly the handsomest boy you've set eyes on in a long time. His eyes...simply gorgeous, and his smile...makes you melt all too quickly. He carries himself as if he's a gift to the human race, and though that's an annoying vice, it still appeals to you in unexplainable ways. Damn it, Rosary!" This was the last thing she wanted to happen, but she could not deny her heart that she was falling for Spot Conlon. No matter how much she wailed against the concept or tried to avoid it, the truth still remained and no desperate claims would alter it. Their arguments, refusals, hatred, and dirty looks were the only world the two had ever shared, and still, Rosary desired his friendship...his love.  
  
Spot had grown onto her; she loathed the fact, but had to accept it. And as she watched the Brooklyn leader cup the brunette's face in his hands, she could feel the envious tears form in her eyes before they blurred her vision. But a strange thing happened then. Right in the middle of a kiss, Spot pulled away and gently pushed his would-be playmate off his lap as he rose to his feet. Then, he whispered something into the girl's ear and smirked when she in turn regarded him with utter resent and stormed away in embarrassment.  
  
Rosary turned around and returned her attention back to the lace on her sash. Spot was coming over to the table, she could feel his steady gaze penetrate her back and it made her nervous. What if he saw her feelings for him? What if he took one look into her eyes and knew instantly that she wanted to love him?  
  
"Heya Rosary," she heard him say as he came around from behind her and relaxed into an adjacent chair. "Youse enjoyin yaself?"  
  
"Not as much as I'm sure you enjoyed yourself with that newsgirl just now." It was the first thing that came out of her mouth and she regretted it. Would he think she was jealous?  
  
Spot froze at the words. "How did ya...?" Before he finished the question, he realized that the chair he had just been occupying with the brunette was perfectly in line with Rosary's view. He cursed under his breath, reprimanding himself for being so careless. The last thing he wanted was for this girl to think he paraded about with sleep-arounds. However, he certainly could not let her assume for one moment that he was sorry. "Yea, that was Miranda. She's been after me fer months now and I thought I'd indulge her."  
  
Rosary feigned a smile. "Oh, how romantic." Her cheeks were burning, making her wish she had worn her hair loose to cover them. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly did you whisper to her?"  
  
"Aint youse an observant lil' spy," he laughed. But inside, he was debating over how to reply to that. "Well..." he cleared his throat, and managed a conceited smirk. "I told her that I'se had three other goils in line tah make this an unforgettable night fer me, and that I'd have tah end our lil' make out session 'fore the others got jealous." He did not even want to see the look on her face, but he forced himself to.  
  
"That's horrid! I would have given you a piece of my mind!"  
  
"Among pieces of other things youse would've given me," he blurted out. He hated having to act like this, but what else had he to stabilize his reputation? "Ah, come on, Rosary. I'se can add ya tah the lineup if ya wanna shot wid me."  
  
The girl raised her eyebrows. "Ha! I don't even want to think of the day I might succumb to your perverted demands!"  
  
"Aww, ya know it's all youse ever dream about." He took her hand in his across the table and his eyes glistened with playful shades of blue.  
  
She snatched her hand from him. "You're more likely to find such thoughts in my nightmares!"  
  
Spot laughed. "I'se admires that. Ya got real wit, goil. Just as much wit as some stubborn goils in me past who thought they could keep hating me fer the rest of their lives." He lowered his voice. "But sweetheart, even they ended up in bed wid me by the end of the night."  
  
"Ugh! You sickening, repulsive, bad excuse for a..."  
  
"Heya, enough about me, wanna dance?" He jumped up, grabbed Rosary's hand, and pulled her to her feet with a sudden burst of gusto. "Last dance, goily. Consider yaself woith me time tah be spendin it wid youse."  
  
Rosary tried to free herself from Spot's grip as he led her to the center of the dance floor, but he was much stronger than and just as obstinate as she. Soon enough, the Brooklyn leader had picked out an area the two could squeeze into, and he put his free hand behind the girl's back to push her closer to him. She wouldn't budge.  
  
"What'sa mattah?" He laughed at her glare. "Rosary, I'se aint never hoid of a couple who danced together standin so far apart!"  
  
"You said I would not have to dance with you!"  
  
He shrugged. "Change of plans. Now c'mon, I'se aint got any diseases." She stepped neared to him and he smirked. "At least I'se hoping the goils I've known didn't have diseases..." She pushed him away and turned to leave, but he pulled her back. "All right, all right. So ya can't take any jokes, I'll keep that in mind fer the future. Listen Rosary, I'se tired of arguing wid ya every minute. I mean, it's fun and all and gives me a challenge, but I rather spend me time gettin tah know youse bettah."  
  
She wanted to believe him, but how was she to know that those weren't the same words he had used to seduce other such girls? How could she be sure that he really wanted to befriend her? She had known shallow promises before; they had broken her heart so many times. "I don't want to make the mistake of getting involved with someone whose sole desire is to get something from me I'm not willing to give."  
  
"Well then ya aint got nothing tah worry about," he softly answered. She smiled at him and he felt consumed with warmth at the precious sight. It was a bothersome feeling; he was not sure whether he could get used to it. He was accustomed to one-night stands and ridding himself of girls once they had given themselves to him. His heart was cold and only could be enlivened by lust, yet here was this new feeling. This incomprehensible emotion that Rosary offered him.  
  
He wrapped his arms around her lower back and brought her right up against his body so that their faces touched, and with a yearning he could not understand, he lowered his head to kiss her.  
  
Rosary abruptly turned her face.  
  
"What'sa mattah wid youse?" Spot asked, set off by her rejection. "What are ya so afraid of?"  
  
She thought of her family back home and all the Harlem newsies who had been brainwashed to hate those of Brooklyn. She thought of Marcello and Ramon, and the latter's schemes to have her fish out secrets for the gang's success. What was she doing at Irving Hall in the arms of Spot Conlon, the infamous and respected leader of Brooklyn, the one her people back home abhorred? Was she a traitor? Had she traded in everyone she had ever loved for this one chance of being with Spot, even when she was not sure of the leader's motives?  
  
"Rosary, what is youse afraid of?" He asked again.  
  
She looked at him with tearful eyes. "Hurting you."  
  
* * * * *  
  
The Harlem lodging house echoed with clamorous laughter as the violent boys from Marcello's gang took a break from murder, torture, and stealing to celebrate one from their brood's birthday. There were poker games carrying on, sounds of craps and marbles being played, arm wrestling, gambling, songs, and jokes. Amidst the joyful amusement sat Marcello and his favorite newsies at a small wooden table made for seven. Runner remained in the shadows, a silent spectator who desired to participate in the carousing but who was to afraid to take his chance against the larger goons.  
  
As luck would have it, Marcello seemed to take notice of the boy's absence. "Heya Silvah, whaddya doing ovah there? Come heah, kid!"  
  
A bit hesitant yet overjoyed by the invitation, Runner made his way to his leader and sank into a chair beside him.  
  
"Fellahs, lemme have ya attention," Marcello said as he stood to his feet. "From heah on out, I'se makin Silvah me official right-hand man. The kid's got more talent wid a gun than all of youse put together. On top of that, he sells papes almost as good as me, I'll admit, and he's got an attitude that makes me wanna soak the hell outta him!" The boys laughed and Runner reddened with humiliation. Inside, however, he felt honored to be recognized by the Harlem leader, though he knew not why. Was not Marcello the one he had just recently opposed when first he had set foot on the Italian's territory? Was not Marcello the number one enemy of Brooklyn, his very own borough?! But now Runner was filled with admiration for and was awed by the villainous youth. The change in sentiments did not occur over night, of course; they rather evolved over a long, rigorous period and they were presently at their strongest. He had finally been accepted not because of whom he was related to, but because of whom he himself was, and that meant everything to him.  
  
"Cheers tah Silvah," a boy at the table exclaimed with raised beer mug.  
  
"Cheers!"  
  
A large cup was passed to the boy filled with a pint of foaming brown liquid of a much too powerful scent. Runner wrinkled his nose at the odor and would have pushed the refreshment away, but unwilling to disappoint his audience, he gulped down every last drop of the hard liquor.  
  
"Holy shit," he coughed, blinking his eyes to rid the daze from his mind.  
  
Marcello patted him on the back and laughed. "Welcome tah out temporary carefree woild!"  
  
Ramon shook his head and grinned at the sight as he approached the table with a note in his hands. "Silvah, get the hell off me chair!" In good humor, he waited for the younger boy to do as he had said, but Runner only looked from him to Marcello as if unsure what to do.  
  
"Uh, Ramon, we'se kinda had a change in plans heah," the Harlem leader said. "Considerin how youse has been me assistant fer ages now, I'se decided tah switch things around and give Silvah a chance tah prove himself."  
  
"But he aint even family!" Ramon stepped forward, ready to throw the blonde off his chair if need be.  
  
Marcello's voice was ice cold. "Youse lay a finger on the kid and I swear I'll shoot both ya hands off."  
  
"Shoah, let some midget joik take ovah the place! Youse don't even know a damn thing about 'im! Jesus, Marcello, what the hell is ya problem? Ya can't just let anyone into our family like this!"  
  
"If youse got something against me, Ramon, why don't ya stop bitchin about it and say it tah me face." Runner slammed his gun onto the table before him and crossed his arms, waiting for his challenge to be accepted.  
  
Ramon smirked at him. "Alright. Why don't youse tell me what the hell Spot Conlon wants wid youse?"  
  
The room fell silent and Runner's eyes widened. "What are ya talkin...?"  
  
"It's all right heah in this note from Brooklyn tah youse and Marcello." The older threw the folded paper at Runner and waited.  
  
Marcello looked at Ramon. "Is this some kinda joke?"  
  
Runner slowly opened the note and let his eyes fall onto the handwritten words he recognized as Spot's penmanship. About a minute later, he had completed reading the message and tried to bite his lips from forming into a grin. Pure genius. He knew his cousin would come around to applying his smarts on some aspect of life since their suspension from school. He had to admit, Spot was quite the conniving leader; he gave him that much credit at least.  
  
'In case you've forgotten, we still have ya dear sister in our possession. We'se giving ya one week to send the blonde kid to Brooklyn and move your sorry asses to New Jersey. Make us wait a second longer than that and we'll put so many bullet holes through her, ya won't even recognize her body afterwards.'  
  
Runner liked that line especially. Spot always had a passion for vivid graphics. It was Queens' idea to kidnap Rosary, yet the borough had soon after joined sides with Harlem...so why not use Marcello's sister as bait? Why not threaten to slaughter the girl if it would force Harlem away? Runner nodded. Pure genius.  
  
"Ah, shit, I don't know," the young newsie said, realizing Ramon and now Marcello still waited for an answer. "Maybe he thinks I'se the one going around killin people and since I'se still a novice at the game, he knows he can sway me opinion."  
  
Marcello agreed. "Sounds right." He read over the note and entered a pensive state. "D'ya really think they'd kill Rosary?"  
  
"I doubt it."  
  
"The hell he won't!" Ramon yelled. "We'se can't keep Rosary ovah there now. D'ya know what ya muddah would say if she knew what we'se were doing? Damn, she'd disown us!"  
  
Runner was momentarily reminded of his past. Spot, a killer? As a matter of fact...! "Marcello, send me tah Brooklyn! Send me tah Spot and lemme speak on behalf of Harlem. I'se can convince him tah not kill the goil. Hell, I can woik out new terms for this truce wid him. Send me!"  
  
"Ya don't know who youse is going up against, kid." Marcello crumbled the note in his hand and threw it to the fires of the nearby hearth. "He could kill ya if he wanted."  
  
"Trust me, I'se can do this. He aint gunna kill me, I knows it! Send me, Marcello, 'fore it's too late."  
  
Marcello shook his head. "No. If Brooklyn wants to play hardball, we'se gunna meet 'em just as rough. Tomorrow, Ramon, youse go tah Brooklyn and ya talk tah Spot, and give 'im a note fer me."  
  
Ramon agreed and out the corner of his eyes saw the frustrated look on Runner's face. Why was the kid so anxious to go to Brooklyn? And how exactly did Spot hear of him? Something was not right here...  
  
* * * * *  
  
WoWzErZ! Long chapter! Thanks for the REVIEWS so far! C'mon, let's keep them rolling in, though! No slacking, please! Don't be an absent REVIEWER! If ya read this chapter, take out a minute to click that purple button down yonder and submit a REVIEW! Like it? Hate it? Either way, I wanna know! : ) Love ya all! 


	12. Traitor

DISCLAIMER: Nope, the characters have yet to belong to me, except for Runner, Rosary, and the others not in Newsies. Disney owns the rest. :sigh:  
  
A.N.: One word: WoWzErZ! Talk about a vote! You goils are soooo AWESOME! I was soooo surprised to receive so many votes! I was expecting four or five, but seventeen?! Holy Crap! LoL! Thanks SOOOO Much! You have no idea (well maybe you do actually, lol) how happy it made me feel to hear back from all youse! YaaaaY!!! So obviously, you all voted that I just continue the story as is. ^_^ Well, keep extending the love; I'll be needing a lot of encouragement to keep writing this tidbit. I still have no idea where I'm going with it, but we'll get there together, eh? Haha. Thanks again!  
  
Shot outs to: Raven's Wing, Cici, Kathryn Mason Skyes, Trek, skittles, erinkathleen, Angel, Kaylee, firecracker, geometrygal, patch530, rogue, soptgal, unnamed, Spatz, babygoil, Kathryn. Thanks so MUCH, goils!!! Love ya All!  
  
~*When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary*~  
  
***BRIEF RECAP: Harlem is slowly climbing the ranks to domination over all the other boroughs in New York by raiding other territories and launching schemes of violence all throughout the city. To show Brooklyn is one borough that won't be messed with, Spot Conlon teams up with his allies in Queens (who later betray him) and Manhattan and kidnaps a girl named Rosary, better known as the sister of Harlem's leader, Marcello. But Harlem's attacks won't cease and so Spot sends his younger cousin Runner to the fatal hands of their enemies under the mirage of a new kid looking for work, while Rosary gets word from an old-time friend to act as a spy for Harlem. Soon after, things take an ironic twist when Rosary comes to have feelings for the Brooklyn leader and begins questioning her devotion to her brother. Just as well, an underlying hatred towards Spot begins to grow within Runner and the young Conlon steadily becomes a bloodthirsty fighter emotionally distraught by a murder he committed for Harlem and haunted by December 19, a date that would always be engraved into his memories. We last left the story with Rosary refusing a kiss from Spot at one of Medda's dances for fear that she would one day hurt him, and beloved Runner growing weary when Ramon (once right-hand man to Marcello) begins to suspect ties between him and Spot Conlon.***  
  
Like the sly wolf that lurks in the distance behind veils of shrubbery while stalking its prey, Runner crept on his toes ever so reticently as he followed Ramon from their humble abode in Harlem through the quiet back alley's that led to Spot's territory, to the infamous streets of the borough that was Brooklyn. He wondered upon many things in the doing. How was Spot holding up with that rambunctious girl Rosary? Last he had seen them together, they had reminded him of a middle-aged couple married for a number of years neither would ever admit to for fear that it would unearth too many memories that only brought pain. He smirked. Thank God he wasn't in Brooklyn anymore; he doubted he could put up with that girl's incessant complaining for a day more. Although, she was always rather cordial with him, had even warned him against troubles he might experience in Harlem.  
  
How odd; that someone who should have been his enemy would willingly advise him in ways that would save his life. It was...noble. What noble acts had he to show? Murder? Betrayal? Lost in his thoughts, he overlooked the glass bottle at his feet and ended up kicking the object, sending it on a spinning journey across an alley until it shattered into violent shards upon making contact with a brick wall. He instantly dodged behind a discarded pile of boxes just as Ramon spun about to find the source of the noise.  
  
The Italian narrowed his eyes in confusion. He at last concluded the noise must've been the result of some stray cat's careless walking and continued on his way to the Brooklyn lodging house. How would he make his entrance into Spot's domain? With an exaggerated valor that made him look like a warrior returning from battle, or with a sense of reserve and alert that would make the Brooklynites know he wasn't there to work out deals?  
  
It was December 17 and he had already grown tired of this confounded game of cat and mouse. What he really intended on doing was murdering the blasted leader and stealing back Rosary before things became ugly. He stopped at a street crossing as a horse carriage passed on by and grinned. A few more passages through the forgotten alleys of the borough and he would finally arrive at the docks where Spot Conlon was bound to be sitting on his makeshift throne of crates.  
  
Runner peered around the edge of the boxes, his vision momentarily blurred by tears when a strong wind whipped at his face like a thick rope made of rawhide. "Shit!" He rubbed at his eyes to rid himself of the pain but his efforts proved to no avail. He cursed under his breath; who had ever heard of a gene that made one's eyes exceptionally sensitive to the slightest bother? He blinked once, twice, the third was always a charm.  
  
His sight restored, he jumped to his feet and scurried off after Ramon before he lost track of the Harlem newsie. Dashing across the streets, he barely missed barging into an elderly woman and her cumbersome loads of groceries and jumped into another alley before a bull could have the opportunity of yelling at his incompetence. Ramon was about five or six yards away. Perfect.  
  
Ramon couldn't dispel that feeling from his subconscious that someone or something was following him. "Probably some stray dog," he muttered as he kicked a trash can lid out of his way. Yet why would he be so tense about a dog? Perhaps it was a beggar child, following the boy in hopes of pilfering a few coins. "Well, let's see what the lil' guttersnipe does when the tables toin." He jogged off and slid in front of a beat up mattress leaned against the outside wall of an apartment complex.  
  
Runner was too busy watching flakes of snow descend from the heavens to notice the alteration. The opening fall of snow; he remembered the first time he had seen the white beauties. It had been a magical time full of blessings and high spirits. Such things seemed to be reduced to a consuming void nowadays, and as he watched the ivory flakes steadily accumulate onto the streets and clothes of passersby, he realized it was only two days away. December 19. Had a year really gone by so swiftly?  
  
Remembering his current duties, he turned his attention back to Ramon, and then gasped. "What the hell....?" Where had the Harlem newsie gone? He was just there, and now...he had disappeared. The young Conlon looked frantically about him. This wasn't good at all. He thought to retrace his steps but that would only give Ramon an advantage over him in time, and time was something Runner could not afford. He had to warn Spot! With a sudden bolt of energy he took off like an iron ball shot from a cannon, as if he were the wonder of some circus' award-winning event. But the beauty of his would-be flight was terminated when he tripped over something and fell face forward onto the cemented grounds of the alley.  
  
A moan escaped from his lips and he could taste the metallic bitterness of blood in his mouth. His tongue poked at his gums and jaw line; moments later he spit out a tooth. The pain would have been excruciating were his mind not drawn to the person who now stood before him. "Ramon!"  
  
The Harlem boy answered by kicking Runner in the ribs with the viciousness of a hungry lion. "Damn scab, what the hell is youse doin' heah? Ya s'pose tah be back in Harlem kissin' Marcello's ass, remembah? Or is youse renouncin' ya lil' badass reputation?"  
  
The younger staggered to his feet, rubbing his jaw all the while. "Listen, Ramon. I'se aint heah tah start no shit. I only came 'cause I'se wanted tah warn ya against Spot. He's gots boids all ovah the place and he can corner youse in half a second if he wanted to." He wiped the blood from his face and frowned at the red smears now on his shirt.  
  
"Ya think I'm stupid or somethin', Silvah? Or wait, maybe I'se should say Runnah, right?" He was met with a blank stare; he grinned. "What, ya didn't think I'd find out sooner or latah? Ya didn't think it was obvious? Maybe not tah the rest of the idiots back home, but youse didn't fool me." From the back pocket of his pants, he took out a weapon that the boy immediately recognized. "Tell me, kid. How many newsies not from Brooklyn carry around a slingshot? One with the initials R.C. on it?"  
  
"I'se don't know what youse is talkin' about."  
  
"Oh shut the hell up!" Ramon threw the slingshot at the former Brooklynites' feet with a look of disgust. "Go ahead, pick the damn thing up! Ya know it's yours!" He watched as Runner did as he ordered and shook his head much as he would were he watching a disgraceful boxing match that wasn't leaning in his favor. "What were youse intendin' on doin'? Rippin' apart Harlem? Ya know, ya had alotta guys trustin' youse, kid, and ya just go off and betray 'em all like that? I oughta kill youse!"  
  
Runner ran his fingers along the slender body of his slingshot and felt the impressions in the wood where his initials were engraved. Spot had made the weapon for him out of a block of wood; it was a sort of belated birthday present for the newsie he claimed would be his successor. How could he have been so stupid as to take it with him to Harlem? He wanted to aim a shooter for his forehead and kill himself right then for his idiocy. "Ramon, I might've gone there at foist tah do that but after I'se gots tah stayin' there fer a while, I didn't wanna betray anyone. Let's just call a truce, huh? Youse go on back tah Harlem, I'll stay heah in Brooklyn and we'll forget all about it."  
  
"I'se hoid a lot about youse," the other went on. "Runner Conlon. The kid who'll always stay in his older cousin's shadow. Must be hard fer youse, knowin' ya nothin' compared tah Spot."  
  
"Shaddup!" the younger snapped, his hatred being rekindled.  
  
Ramon grinned. "I'll woik out a deal wid youse, brat. How 'bout I slit ya throat, put a bullet through ya cousin's head, find Rosary and then set the whole damn lodgin' house on fire!" Not waiting for an invitation, he unsheathed a dagger and took a swipe at Runner, but the boy jumped back just in time to miss the deadly swing.  
  
His back now up against a wall, Runner threw an empty beer can at his adversary to buy him time as he searched his vest's pockets for his gun. Thank God he never left his home anymore unarmed. His fingers drew the pistol into sight and he held it aimed for Ramon's heart. "Come any closer and I'll kill youse 'fore ya can tell Harlem it's goin' tah hell!"  
  
"Screw you, Brooklyn fag!" Runner didn't even know what had happened next. Somehow, Ramon had kicked the gun out of his hand and had thrown him against the brick outsides of an apartment, his back bruised by the slam. The young Conlon collapsed to the ground as if paralyzed and felt as if he had just carried a ton of anvils on his frail bones.  
  
"Get up!" Ramon ordered, kicking him again in the ribs with no remorse. He wasn't in Spot's presence yet, but in the meantime he could fuel his revulsion for the Brooklyn leader by soaking Runner into a mound of misshapen flesh. "Get up, ya lousy bastard! What'sa mattah? Spot nevah teach youse tah fight like a man?" He hoisted the boy to his feet and balled his fists to sock him a good one across the eye but Runner spit onto his face and shoved him away with a renewed strength.  
  
"This is ya last chance," Runner managed to say, even though his body was undergoing the worse physical feelings it had ever known. "Get ya ass back tah Harlem and I'll make shoah Spot don't kill ya!"  
  
Ramon wasn't in the mood for negotiations, though. He charged after the boy with his dagger's point aimed for Runner's throat and the two were suddenly engaged in a life or death grip lock. They struggled against each other's strength, the veins in their arms and neck making their selves apparent like precious canals warning the body of a forthcoming shutdown. The dagger's blade would move one inch closer to Runner, and then two inches farther away. One inch of progression, two that meant the boy's life.  
  
At one point, Runner could not bear anymore and fell back like a worthless rag doll, Ramon falling atop him and still trying to plunge the dagger into the boy's flesh. But the young Conlon found an advantage in the sweat that was loosening Ramon's grip on the weapon and in a slow but steady development, he managed to turn the dagger so that it was now favoring the Harlem newsies' life in place of his.  
  
Ramon tried to yank free from the boy but Runner wouldn't let go and the two ended up rolling the width of the alley, much as a human barrel, until a fatal miscalculation occurred. The boys had carried their selves into a pile of snow, and in an effort to steady himself, Ramon had placed his hands onto the cement, but the cement was covered with ice, a slippery substance that worked against him. He fell onto Runner; ultimately, he fell onto the upturned dagger.  
  
Choking on the blood that oozed from his mouth, he gasped for breath, struggling to pull himself free of the damned blade now claiming his life. Runner turned him over on his back and reached for the Harlem newsies' stomach to yank out the source of pain, but Ramon grabbed his hand with a shake of his head. It was no use; he could feel his soul slipping away.  
  
"No, no! Ramon! Listen, ya gotta pull through this. Marcello needs youse!" The young Conlon didn't know what possessed him to suddenly speak to the one who had wanted him dead just moments earlier in a soothing way. Perhaps it was that common fear of death that tied him to the fallen boy, perhaps it was mere pity. "Ramon! Ramon, I'se sorry!"  
  
Ramon's final breath was one that inhaled air, saliva, and blood. Before the energy left him, he spat out one word, "traitor", and then his eyes rolled back and his head hit the hard surface of the cement.  
  
Runner's breath quickened in a great panic. It wasn't supposed to happen like this! He had only followed Ramon in hopes of persuading him to forget about truces with Spot! He hadn't meant to...kill him! He shut his eyes tight but the burning tears came anyway. They cared nothing for his pride; he had killed a human being and his soul needed to mourn! He shook his head, not wanting it to be true, but when his eyes reopened, Ramon's body was still there, a dagger protruding from his abdomen like a lethal thorn. A thorn that would always poke at his heart now.  
  
"No!" What was he becoming? How could he allow such a thing to happen? 'Monster, monster!' His subconscious was appalled with him and try as he did, he couldn't find the words to offer a proper defense for himself. He wept over Ramon's body for what seemed an eternity, but what in reality was only a stretching ten minutes. He had to leave this scene; he had to go before some loudmouth began exclaiming that he was a murderer. And yet, he was.  
  
He almost forgot the dagger. He hadn't wanted to take it but some superstition or maybe just good sense told him it could be used against him, and so he wrenched it from the body and for now, stuffed it into a sheath in his boot.  
  
He couldn't remember a time in which he ran any faster than he did now. It was as if he were competing in some great marathon against time in which his consequences for losing would be his life. Rounding a corner, he crashed head on with a young girl a few inches shorter than him.  
  
"Fiyah! What is youse doin' heah?" He helped the girl to her feet and forced himself to look into her grey-blue eyes, which much reminded him of Spot's. They seemed to be judging him, as if they knew what he had done and now waited for a confession.  
  
Fire fixed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose and dusted off her clothes. "I came heah tah see me bruddah Scapegoat. What's on ya shoit?" She narrowed her eyes questioningly but Runner pushed past her with the utmost hurry.  
  
"Have youse seen me cousin anywhere around?"  
  
"Nope, I just got heah. Shouldn't he be at the lodgin' house or somethin'?" The red blotches on the boy's shirt still beheld her curiosity. She scratched her head of reddish hair and pursed her lips. "Runnah, is that blood? Youse get in a brawl?" Her childlike face grew excited and she stepped closer to him in hopes that he would indulge her with an adventurous tale.  
  
"Nah, it aint blood! Why the hell would I have blood on me?" His voice wavered, his hesitation growing. "Listen, if ya see Spot, tell 'im I'se lookin' fer him, alright?"  
  
Fire nodded and waved farewell with a confused look on her face as the boy sped off again at remarkable speed. She crossed her arms. Why was Runner soaked in blood?  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Rosary, will ya gimme a chance?" Spot gently grabbed Rosary's wrist and turned her so that they were facing each other. It seemed as if the girl was going to the extremes to avoid him ever since that near kiss at Medda's dance. He'd walk into the lodging house's main room, and she'd exit out one of the far doors. He'd sit next to her at The Parlor (the Brooklyn equivalent to Tibby's) and she'd excuse herself from the table. Her actions had finally tipped him over the edge and he found the need to confront her about it when he had cornered her in the girls' bunkroom.  
  
She tried to yank free of his grasp but was unsuccessful; the least she could do was keep from looking into the intense irises that were his eyes. "What do you want from me?" she asked him softly, trying to brush the matter aside as quickly as possible.  
  
"Goil, I want youse tah talk tah me. Fer days now, youse been actin' like Medda's dance nevah happened! Ya say ya don't wanna hoit me and all, but it seems more like youse don't wanna hoit yaself. What's botherin' ya, Rosary? Whaddya keepin' secret?"  
  
Her eyes shot up to his own. Why had he instantly assumed that she was keeping something secret? Why was he putting all the blame on her? He was the one who tried to escalate their relationship with a single action! He was the one who had been yelling in her face one day and then flirting like the player he was the next! "What's bothering me is you thinking that you can have your way all the time, just because you're so powerful and respected. I'm not some doll of yours to bed, Spot. I don't...I don't even want to be here!"  
  
"Oh really?" he snapped back at her, not willing to face any kind of rejection. "And what did youse originally think? That I'se took ya heah fer me own benefit? Sorry tah burst ya ego, doll face, but it's not like Brooklyn's too pleased tah have a Harlem newsie wid us." It wasn't a lie. On several occasions, his boys had asked whether they could have their way with the girl, to show everyone her place in their borough. They despised having one from their enemy's brood in their very presence; it was enough to make their skin crawl.  
  
But for some reason they did not understand, Spot wouldn't let them lay a finger on the girl. The Brooklyn leader had told them the consequences of such were grounds for dismissal from his borough.  
  
Rosary crossed her arms; it was the only thing she could think to do at a time that called for strength. "If you don't want me here, why are you making moves on me? Why are you getting soft all of a sudden?"  
  
"Cause it's what I'se do best," he replied with a sinister smirk. "I aint just gunna let a pretty face pass me by without takin' 'er tah bed. Youse was one such case." He stepped closer to her and outwardly reveled in her humiliated look, but inside he felt crushed. So this was the way it would always be, he thought. It seemed as if he would always value his reputation too much to ever reveal his true feelings for a woman.  
  
"Screw you, Spot! You almost had me thinking you were different from all the other scabs around New York! You almost had me believing that maybe the great Brooklyn leader wasn't all words and the epitome of superficial bastards! But I guess I was wrong!"  
  
He only shrugged at her outburst. "Whatever. Listen, I'se gotta be headin' tah Manhattan in a bit. Ya think youse can tell one of me older boys tah be in charge while I'se gone? I should only be there..." The sentence wasn't completed for quite out of nowhere, with an urgency that set Spot on guard, the door of the room slammed open at a force that embedded a hole into the wall it crashed into. In the doorway stood Runner, panting as if he had just run a marathon, his body drenched with sweat and blood, his hair plastered onto his face and soaked as well.  
  
The boy tried to move forward but only ended up collapsing onto the floor. Spot rushed up to his cousin, dropping to his knees at Runner's side and collecting the small body into his arms. Rosary arched an eyebrow at this rare display of concern, a side of Spot New York had never seen and probably never would.  
  
Runner's face, dirty with tears, dirt, and streaks of red, shriveled with anguish and as he looked upon him, Spot was reminded of the events that had occurred around this time last year when he had held the boy much the same as he did now. Memories. "Lucas," he whispered as he had those long months ago, in a low voice only meant to be heard by he who bore the name. "what happened? Who did this tah youse?"  
  
"Spot, I killed 'im," was all the other could force out of his mouth. "I killed 'im, and...he was only tryin' tah...I'se a moiderer! I, I didn't mean tah, though. I tried tah woik somethin' out wid 'im, I didn't wanna...he called me a, he said I was a...traitor..."  
  
"Killed who? What is youse talkin' about, kid? Take it one sentence at a time, who is we'se talkin' about heah?"  
  
Runner gasped a breath in an effort to expand the lungs that threatened to shut down on him. He was so tired, in such pain. The last thing he wanted was to be cross-examined by his cousin. Greater things were at stake, his life and freedom being two such matters! What if the bulls somehow tracked him down? What if they cornered him in an alley one day and shot him dead for his crime? He started convulsing.  
  
"Runnah, stay wid me!" Spot's hold became firmer as he tried to steady the boy and keep him from hurting himself. Rosary drew nearer, in case her assistance was needed. She wasn't learned in the medical ways, but she had seen enough gang fights to comprehend the practices paramedics would apply afterwards. "Who did this tah youse?"  
  
Runner shut his eyes tight, trying to close off the world. "Don't make me go back, Spot. Don't make me go back! They's gunna carve me alive, beat me 'til I'se a mound of flesh. If they knew I killed 'im, 'specially Marcello. Don't...I can't, I'se gots tah stay heah."  
  
Realizing he would get nothing more out of the conversation, Spot looked back at Rosary in thought. "Ya comin' tah Manhattan wid me," he said simply.  
  
"I don't want to be involved." She backed away and kept her arms crossed.  
  
"It wasn't a request!" Spot yelled, his rage unleashing. He was determined to get to the bottom of this riot. No one, absolutely no one, soaked one of his newsies and got away with it. The rule was even stricter when it dealt with family members. "Don't worry, Runnah. I'se gunna tell Manhattan tonight that we'se aint takin' no more crap from Harlem. They's either accept the treaty or we'se goin' in tah kill the bastards."  
  
He wasn't sure what his younger cousin's reaction would be, and he grasped that he never would know, for as he took a closer look at the boy he saw that he was fast aleep.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
W00t w00t! Finally done with another chapter! REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! C'mon goils! Ya wanted me to continue this story, show me some love! LoL! Like it so far, Don't? Tell me! REVIEW!!! YEEEEEEEeHAw! 


	13. He Didn't Kill Anyone

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters featured in Disney's Newsies belong to me but instead belong to Disney! *SuRpRiSe* Everyone else, ESPECIALLY Runner Conlon, belong to me! ^_^ Have a nice day! Kaylee and Firecracker own themselves.  
  
A.N.: WoW, it's been a while, ay? My apologies. I've just been working really hard on finishing up "Confessions" and "Just A Little Bet". Now that I have one finished with, I let myself get back to this baby. ^_^ There's only a few more chapters left by the way, four or five at the most. Let's break 100!! W00t w00t! Shout-outs to: Deanie, Jade Shintz, Poe the goddess, Apollonia, Isabelle Gibson, Raven, unnamed, FatBottomGirl, Raven's Wing, Kathryn Mason-Skyes, Firecracker, and Lil Rain Angel!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
BRIEF RECAP: Ramon has finally found out Runner's secret, has finally realized that the boy is indeed related to the infamous Spot Conlon. On his way to Brooklyn, however, he confronts Runner and though the latter tries to dissuade him from making a 'truce' with Spot, Ramon refuses and the two enter a life-or-death grip lock. Unfortunately, Ramon falls onto his own dagger; Runner takes the guilt upon himself. Meanwhile in Brooklyn, Spot and Rosary are arguing over the near kiss they almost shared at Medda's dance when Runner barges through the door and collapses in exhaustion. Seeing the state his cousin is in, Spot is infuriated and at last decides a meeting with Manhattan is in order to finally show Harlem their place...  
  
Fire ran into Tibby's excitedly, her arms waving about wildly as if she were a child trying to get a parent's attention, her facial expressions evidently conveying that she knew something she wanted everyone to know. Bouncing with that fact, she dashed through the restaurant giggling, crashed into a few boys, and then plopped down beside Specs. The boy grinned at her excitement and draped an arm over her shoulders to pull her closer to him.  
  
Across from the couple sat Race with a girl he had met just that morning. Her name was Kaylee and he took a liking to her rather quickly, but he knew that at a time like this in which boroughs were warring against each other, he couldn't' easily trust any dame that walked by. Even though he doubted Kaylee had any involvement with Harlem, as she was of a sweet and kind demeanor, he'd still be cautious.  
  
"Guess what!" exclaimed Fire to the other three at her table. They waited for her response with arched eyebrows. The girl leaned closer but glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on the conversation.  
  
Race grew impatient. "Well?"  
  
Fire turned back to him and giggled as if she had enjoyed the greatest joke of all time. "On me way tah Brooklyn tah see me bruddah, I crossed paths wid Runnah. He was lookin' fer Spot." Thinking she was finished, Race was about to make a sarcastic comment about how that was the most shocking new he had heard up to date, but the girl cut him off short. "His shoit was covered in blood; his hands too. I asked him why but he just said it weren't blood. He looked like he was in a real hurry. I'se couldn't stop thinking 'bout it all mornin'."  
  
"I'se aint shoah what all that means," Specs admitted. He was usually of quick mind and could decipher any conundrum within seconds, but this particular problem seemed to birth riddles of its own. Wasn't Runner supposed to be in Harlem? Why had he returned earlier, or had he indeed meant to return? And what of the blood?  
  
Kaylee was at a lost for understanding. Being new to the crowd, she didn't know who Runner was, or why he being in Brooklyn was such a big deal. She relied on Race for answers, but when she looked to him only to see confusion also mirrored in his eyes, she gave up. Instead, she asked a question of her own. "Wheah in Brooklyn was it, Fiyah? I'se saw in the papes that a few brawls broke out in the city. Maybe he was just caught in the middle of one."  
  
"Good point," the other girl agreed. "It was near Smith Street is alls I know. A long ways from the lodgin' house." The group of friends sat there trying to solve the mystery but neither could reach a solution.  
  
A few minutes later, Blink strolled into the small establishment with Snitch and Mush at his sides. The boys, usually in playful moods with means to pull pranks on a misfortunate newsboy once they entered the picture, today resembled youth who had been forced to grow up much too fast. Their eyes were wide in disbelief, hesitation's cloak shrouding them.  
  
Jack instantly noticed this and asked above all the clamor and guffaw of his eating brood what was the matter. Those gathered nearby at once quieted themselves upon hearing the authority and concern in the Manhattan leader's voice.  
  
Blink held up a single article with fringed edges, one he had torn from the World afternoon edition at first sight. "Didn't any of youse read the story on page 9?" He continued on further until he was at the center of the restaurant, right aside Jack. "It's an Extra, the story was written 'bout an hour or so ago. Some Italian kid was found dead in Brooklyn!"  
  
"What!" Jack snatched the article and began skimming over its lines himself, refusing to believe that his ally borough could be home to any casualties, especially when the physical war had yet to begin! Yet the evidence was right before him. "This is messed up, seriously. All it says is the scab was stabbed...they aint even got nothin' on Brooklyn. For all we'se knows, it can be a set-up!"  
  
"But d'ya think Harlem would kill one of its own just tah do that?"  
  
Jack nodded without the slightest hesitation. "I knows fer a fact they would!"  
  
Race shared anxious looks with those at his table, as they each shared similar thoughts about the whole event. He slowly rose to his feet and took the article from Jack's hand as the leader went on ranting about his hatred towards Harlem. His heart stopped when his eyes fell upon the street name where the body had been found.  
  
"Smith Street," he whispered, but it was loud enough to catch Jack's ear and the older boy at once turned to his friend.  
  
"Race, ya know somethin' youse aint tellin' us?"  
  
The gambling newsie looked at Fire for permission to share the news she had been so eager to tell someone about. The young girl bid him to spill all with a simple hand gesture and Race sighed. "Jacky, I thinks Runnah was in on the moider."  
  
Never before had a room occupied by the newsies fallen so silent.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
The meeting with Manhattan was only supposed to be conducted in a callous fashion that would shoot opinions across in a concise manner and, within fifteen minutes time, reach a final decision. Spot Conlon had even assembled a small group of his Brooklynites to attend. There was his right- hand man Piper, his best fighters Scapegoat and Julian, and one of his messengers, Robin.  
  
Rosary marched on at his side, arms crossed and wearing a scowl. She no longer saw her purpose in the scheme of things. Ramon and Marcello did not require her espionage capabilities any more, as she had given them all the data they needed to know last she spoke with Ramon. Why did they force her to remain in Brooklyn? It'd only drain her of what sanity she yet had.  
  
Spot was oblivious to the girl's emotions, however. The Brooklyn leader was determined to set Harlem ablaze with anarchy and then ruin like never before. He was already planning how he would laugh mercilessly while damned Marcello begged, maybe even cried, for amnesty. But Spot wouldn't be the one to give it to him this time around; enough was enough. His temper was one degree short of unleashing hell on any who opposed him.  
  
When they entered the Manhattan lodging house, a rectangular table was already set up in the main room where only those with sound arguments would seat themselves. The other newsies, who were forbidden to speak during the meeting's entirety, were instead given the privilege to stand about the table and watch on. The younger boys were ordered to bed, as it was no use concerning their minds with such harsh subjects as war. But even so, little innocent eyes could be seen peering around wall corners or over stair railings for curiosity always got the better of them.  
  
Spot sat across from Jack, Piper and Rosary filling the seats on either of his sides, the other three Brooklynites standing behind their leader until instructed to another task. Also at the table were seated Blink, Race, and David. One chair was left empty; it had been assumed Runner would be attending as well, but the preparations for an eighth guest proved unnecessary.  
  
"So Spot," Jack began, sitting straight in his seat with a business like persona. "What's the deal? How longer is we'se gunna wait 'fore we show Harlem who's boss?"  
  
"Well, actually, I'se was kinda aimin' on kickin' their asses tomorrow night. There aint no reason why we'se should wait more than that. I'se tired of this shit. If we don't stop 'em now, there's no tellin' what they'd do next."  
  
The Manhattan leader agreed; he was just as angry as Spot with all the killings occurring city wide. Especially when it had to do with something like power. How could anyone end another's life just to move up in the world? Real men ascended the ranks through hard work and perseverance, not by the blood of an innocent person. "The only problem wid goin' tomorrow's that it doesn't give us time tah send the message tah the other boroughs. Ya know they's need at least a day tah fortify their numbers and decide who'll go and who'll stay. It'd be bettah if we'se push it tah the 19th."  
  
Spot cringed at the date. Ever since Runner started making a big deal out of it, Spot was led to believe December 19th held some manic form of superstition. He paused for a moment, his now grey eyes calculating something. He knew there was no other way. Those boroughs allied with Manhattan and Brooklyn would need advanced planning, and spontaneous decisions would only prove a mistake.  
  
"All right," he said at last. "The 19th it is. Right at dusk; soon as it gets dark."  
  
Rosary shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn't know how, but she had to get word out to her brother somehow. What if the Harlem newsies were unprepared for such an assault? She would be at fault for not having shared her knowledge. From the looks of it, Jack and Spot were incensed; they had every reason to be, she supposed. But would that anger lead to unnecessary deaths, deaths she could have prevented had she told Marcello of this surprise attack beforehand?  
  
Jack seemed to notice the girl for the first time. He stared at her for a long time, wondering what part she played in this mess. Then suddenly, he was reminded of something. "We'se hoid Runnah was in town so we'se set up a chair for 'im, but since he's not heah and all, I figure ya haven't seen 'im yet, huh?"  
  
"Of coise I saw the kid," Spot replied. "He'd taken a few blows on his way heah so I left 'im back in Brooklyn."  
  
"Oh really?" The Manhattan leader looked to Race and nodded at him to share the tidbit they had learned earlier.  
  
Race gulped down hard before saying anything. He knew how temperamental Spot could get, and he wasn't looking forward to breaking suspicious news to the Brooklynite. "Well, uh, Spot, we'se been told by one of our own that ya cousin was covered in blood this mornin' and runnin' like all hell tah find youse. We were told he looked worried 'bout somethin'. Well latah on, Blink shows us this article 'bout some scab from Harlem found dead in a Brooklyn alley. It was 'round the same place our kid had seen Runnah."  
  
Spot immediately took offense. He jumped to his feet and those already standing stepped back a reasonable distance as to not fall victim to his wrath. Spot slammed a hand onto the table and glared condescendingly at the boy. "So what's this all about? Ya think he's a fuckin' moiderer? Did it ever cross ya mind that maybe this Harlem joik and Runnah were both comin' tah see me, and maybe had gotten cornered along the way? That maybe Runnah was the only one that got away? What makes ya so shoah it was him?"  
  
"Well, I'se never said it was, just that..."  
  
"Youse were jumpin' tah conclusions!" the other shouted, his voice a chilling threat that made everyone freeze with fear. "It coulda been anyone, Race. Maybe Runnah just happened tah be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But ya didn't think of that, did youse?"  
  
Jack stood up as well, not liking the turn of events the meeting had taken. "Spot, we'se was only makin' shoah ya knew about it, alright? Don't bite our heads off. So Runnah was only taggin' along wid the kid, okay. Let's move on."  
  
"Begging your pardon," spoke a new voice. "But you both are gravely mistaken if you believe Runner was accompanying the Harlem newsie." All heads turned at the sound of the calm voice; it was Rosary who had dared offer her words. Her hands were clasped and rested on her lap, so passive did she seem.  
  
"If there is anything I know about my brother, it's that he never sends more than one messenger to a certain destination. That's the way it has always been in our borough. I am aware that it makes no sense, but that is how it's done. And I suspect this sheds some light on the dilemma concerning Runner."  
  
Blink shook his head. "Why should we trust youse? How do we know ya aint just tryin' tah make it look like we'se the bad guys heah?"  
  
She shrugged. "I have no reason to lie. I only want this nonsense to end as quickly as possible so that I might go home already. Here's my wager on the matter. Runner was tired of the Harlem life, decided to come home, and realized all too late that he was being followed. The two fought, and Runner ended up killing the boy."  
  
"He didn't kill anyone," Spot snapped at her. "And where d'ya get off thinkin' youse can run ya damn mouth as if we'se asked fer ya opinion!"  
  
"I'm merely trying to help," she said, her anger growing alongside his. "But if you won't be requiring my assistance, I could care less who killed who! I am utterly tired of this; I've never wanted any part in it from the beginning! Ignore the facts all you want, Spot, and walk straight into a trap. I could care less whether you dropped dead in Harlem two days from now! There would certainly be one less pretentious, egotistical pig to deal with!"  
  
Everyone was astonished by the blatant words. Some gasped, some watched intently for the Brooklyn leader's next action, and still others only gaped at the girl in disbelief.  
  
Spot was fuming. If Rosary were one of his boys, he would've killed her with his bare hands right about now. But he restrained himself, and instead regarded Jack. "The 19th, don't forget." Then he seized Rosary by the arm, yanked her to her feet, and dragged her off with him as he proceeded to exit the lodging house. Piper, Scapegoat, Julian, and Robin followed after their leader in a rush.  
  
The Manhattan newsies were left in a daze.  
  
Jack fanned himself with his cowboy hat. "Well, that was quite a show."  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Runner's body ached all over and every time he repositioned his body, a bone popped, as if he hadn't moved a joint in ages. His head swelled with bruises, but also with memories. Ramon's death kept playing over and over in his mind, never ceasing even when he willed it to. He kept seeing the blood gush out like lava that burned his soul, and tearful eyes that's last sight was that of a traitor. Instead of being with family and friends, Ramon's final moment was with someone who had betrayed those very people.  
  
Runner was ashamed. His mouth was dry; every time he tried to whisper into the darkness and beg for forgiveness, the words refused to come out in sere entreaties. He almost felt as if he were dead and even wished for it. He couldn't go on like this anymore. Look at what he had become! A murderer, liar...he remembered Ramon's parting word, "traitor".  
  
His hands and face were washed of the blood that had earlier covered him with its sins, but there were still internal scars he harbored, ones he knew might never heal.  
  
The door to the room he was occupying creaked open and he tried to make out the figure of his visitor, but he had only the light of the moon to work with and it proved of no advantage. Not being able to speak, he simply decided to wait and let the person show himself.  
  
But uneasiness came over him. Something beckoned at him to get out of the room, to find the strength within him to yell at the top of his lungs for help, or to at least hide while he still could. He sat up in his bed and waited.  
  
The sound of a match scraping against another object sounded in the room and soon after a single flame danced about, held by someone rather tall. The miniature fire was brought closer to the face of the one who bore it. Runner's heart stopped. It was Marcello.  
  
"Heya kid, this is the last place I'se expected tah see youse." He walked the length of the room and then returned to Runner's bedside. "I thought ya hated Spot Conlon, but heah ya are wid ya own private room and a nice lil' bed. Shit, it looks tah me likes youse on good terms wid the bastard."  
  
There was light laughter. Runner realized there were others in the room as well. By the faint glow of the match, he recognized one as Lefty; the two next to him were indistinguishable.  
  
"Tell me, Silvah. Ya didn't really intend on killin' Ramon, did ya? It's too bad if ya did, cause that would mean that I have tah kill youse, and I'd really hate tah do that." Runner shook his head vigorously and forced himself to speak, but Marcello held up his hand before he could say anything. "Listen, kid. I'se don't even wanna heah it. I mean, I take ya in, I let youse join me gang, I respect youse and even make ya me right- hand man, and this is how youse pay me back?"  
  
There was anger in his voice, naturally, but it was intermingled with a strain of hurt Runner never thought Marcello capable of possessing. Was the Harlem leader really struck by the betrayal? Had he trusted Runner that much?  
  
"In any case, I'se don't like the idea of youse bein' heah in Brooklyn when ya s'pose tah be in Harlem wid the rest of us. Besides, we still needs tah get youse a fitting punishment." He looked to the boys who had come along with him. "Knock 'im out and tie 'im up good 'fore Spot comes back. We'se gotta be goin' right about now."  
  
Runner scooted back against the headboard of his bunk and tried to get his legs to function properly but before he knew it, large hands clutched at him and threw him to the floor where he was repeatedly punched in the face until he had been delivered into unconsciousness.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Hey you, leave a review. ^_^ Love ya! 


	14. When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters featured in Disney's Newsies belong to me but instead belong to Disney! *SuRpRiSe* Everyone else, ESPECIALLY Runner Conlon, belong to me! ^_^ Have a nice day! Kaylee and Firecracker own themselves.  
  
A.N.: Thanks for the reviews! Although, they were a bit slacking. *sighs* But in any case, I was grateful to receive the ones I did receive. ^_^  
  
Geometrygal: OoOgles, kidnapping Runner, are we? *snickers* He'd probably have more fun with you than he would getting beat up by Harlem. : )  
  
Imaginelet: WoW, you've been reading a lot of my stories! LoL! Thanks so much; it means mucho to me. Which one's your favorite so far? ^_^ Ah, Silver...the color of the gun Runner was holding? Or maybe the silver bullets? *shrugs* It's open for interpretation. Heehee.  
  
Dimples: Hahaha, poor Spot. He's crying his eyes out now. Jack is crazy for saying I was lusting after him. I can't even remember what it was I had said! LoL! Our boys is crazy! ^_^  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Rosary sat on the lower bed of the bunks situated in Spot's room and leaned her back against one of the posts, a sigh of grief escaping her lips and her eyes closing to prevent the tears from coming. Was this what everything would result to? An all-out war between all the major boroughs in New York? Thinking upon the matter made her ashamed to have any blood relations with Marcello; how much more of a brute could one strive to be?  
  
Spot was no better, she decided. On his blind itinerary to excommunicate the Harlem brood from the state, he was merely insuring the demise of others! She couldn't believe how obstinate each were being? Why couldn't they simply make amends like civil young men instead of adopting the personality flaws of bitter diplomats? And what had led to their pledge of hatred in the first case?  
  
These questions scurried through her mind like creatures set loose and try as she did, she could not tame any one into a solution. She combed her hands through her raven black tresses of hair in thought. Spot had acted so foully towards her last night at the meeting with Manhattan. And for what? To prove that he would always sit at the top of the street rat hierarchy even when the strongly opinionated dared question his beliefs? If anything, he probably could benefit from fresher ideas, ideas that would wash away the angst he so often clung to.  
  
Her eyes scanned the room and fell upon Runner's calendar, a heap of papers bound together by a red vinyl binding. Calendars as such were rather costly, which is why she had been curious to know as to how the boy had acquired it in the first place. December 19th stood out amongst the rest, highlighted with a brilliant star that seemed to jump from the paper and beg for attention. It was a day away.  
  
How ironic, she thought. Had Runner known all along what day Brooklyn and Harlem would march into battle? Had he predicted it long ago? She had her doubts, but they weren't sprung from her disbelief in the boy's possible gift of premonitions, but rather from Spot's earlier outrage over Runner having made the date so obvious, as if it was anyone else's business what had happened on that day.  
  
Naturally, that fury was but a temper-tantrum when compared to the anger Spot felt upon returning to the Brooklyn lodging house last night after the meeting only to find that Runner was missing from his bedroom. For hours, he had ordered his boys to search all over the borough for the boy, braving the darkness if only for his cousin's sake. But Runner hadn't turned up anywhere. Things just kept rolling downhill.  
  
Rosary actually pitied the Brooklyn leader. He had seemed astray, as if he was at a loss...as if he didn't know what to do. They exchanged no words when they retired for sleep. Spot was too busy fueling his revulsion for Marcello; Rosary too busy wondering why Spot was never too quick to reveal the emotions that stirred life, those of love, concern, and empathy.  
  
She brushed the matter aside. Desperate times called for desperate prayers, and this morning she prayed that all those involved in tomorrow's fiasco would not be harmed any more than they needed to. In fact, she hoped they wouldn't be harmed at all, but she realized that was perhaps too much to ask for.  
  
She reached into her pocket and took out a silver rosary which she cradled in the bed of her palms. The charm's beaded chain intertwined with her fingers, tightly holding them together much as its power held the pieces of her heart intact. The door to the room swung open then; she raised her head to the sound and watched as Spot entered in, his eyes set in a blaze. It didn't take much to see he was still in tart moods.  
  
"What are you doing?" he asked, not really caring whether she answered or not. He just needed to spill out words to keep his mind off the realities presently at hand.  
  
Rosary kept her gaze on him as he pulled up a chair to her bedside and plopped down onto it. His eyes captivated her; they were like precious sapphires with an innocence turned hard. The irises of an angel now fallen. They always managed to control her somehow. "You care very much for your cousin, don't you?"  
  
Spot was caught off guard. He hadn't expected her to raise such an inquiry and it clearly showed in the way he tried to avoid answering directly. "Whaddya talkin' about? I'se treat 'im just like I treat all me other boys. If one of 'em was missin' and gone, I'd send all a' Brooklyn tah look fer 'im too."  
  
"You needn't deny it, Spot. I'm aware that it would make you appear weak as a leader, especially a leader so respected throughout New York. But I'm not going to let your little secret get out; you can tell me. I actually find it admirable that you watch after him as an older brother."  
  
"He's me cousin. I kinda have tah; I'se owe it tah 'im." His face darkened at the recollection of something. "Anyways, ya didn't answer me question. What is youse doin' heah by yaself, instead of bein' wid Cherry and Patches and gossiping 'bout whatever it is youse goils gossip 'bout."  
  
"Actually," she replied, "I was in the middle of praying."  
  
"Prayin'? Prayin' fer what?"  
  
She managed a small smile. "Just that everything works out tomorrow, that there won't be any need for too much violence. That you and Marcello and all the others will be kept safe. Basically, that everything turns out well. I know it might sound naïve given the nature of the matter, but there's always room for optimism in life."  
  
"Yea, sure. Whatever ya say." He rolled his eyes. It figured that this girl who he already could not stand as it was would only worsen things were her fluffy speeches about hope and 'peace on earth'. When would people grow up and live in the real world? "In case ya haven't noticed, sweetheart, we'se aint exactly preparin' tah go on some happy-go-lucky gatherin'. This is the real deal; I'se had boys lose their lives in fights like these."  
  
"Don't you think I understand that? Don't you think that's why I'm praying in the first place?"  
  
He grew annoyed and shook his head as if he didn't think she understood at all! "D'ya think youse sittin' in bed talkin' tah someone who don't even listen tah the people who really need Him is gunna make any difference? Are youse expectin' some damn angel tah fly down and keep us from killin' each other?"  
  
"Life isn't going to be a picnic when you start believing," she replied, surprisingly calm for someone who had just been offended. "There are still countless trials that await you in life, but they're there for the purpose of revitalizing your faith."  
  
Spot's mouth had been opened to begin protesting but once the girl had finished her rebuttal, he paused in contemplation. He had never though of things in that sense, as having to conquer tribulations to grow stronger in faith, but even so, a little help was in due order from now and again. Surely he wasn't meant to go through life all on his own battling with fate, for it certainly seemed as if on occasion the help he would otherwise ask for wouldn't even come if he begged!  
  
Rosary rested her hand onto Spot's arm and looked deeply into his eyes, trying to connect with him. "Ours is a rough life. We go day by day not knowing whether we're going to have enough to eat for dinner, unsure whether we'll make it home safely after a day's work. Faith can help you pull through."  
  
"So can street-smarts," he threw back. "Why do I need faith when hating everybody that turns scab on me suits me just fine? Ya don't understand, goil. Sometimes just bein' angry at the woild helps ya fight against it."  
  
"So can believing, especially when it's the only thing you have left." She turned her body so that she was completely facing him. The air in the room was suffocating all of a sudden, but she couldn't pull away now. She couldn't abandon the conversation now that she and the Brooklyn leader had at least ceased in barking at each other like siblings. "Even the toughest of people find themselves searching for something more, Spot."  
  
Their gazes locked and he found himself entranced by her words. Was he so concerned with his reputation that he'd miss out on something greater?  
  
The sweet scent of her skin drifted to his senses and he felt something awaken by the aroma. He moved from his chair onto the bed next to her and sat like that for what could have been hours. Time passed unnoticed when he was in her presence like this...simply awed by who and what she was.  
  
Rosary hesitated at being so close to Spot. She couldn't let herself drown in his devious seductions, couldn't let herself become yet another dame fallen prey to the womanizer that the leader was. She'd seen how he had treated such girls before, and she wasn't looking forward to joining their ranks. She also didn't fancy being considered a traitor in her family's eyes.  
  
Then again...she was drawn to him in unexplainable ways. True, sometimes he was an obnoxious jackass with an ego ever-inflating. True, he had a temper that was detestable and just as well, terrifying. But truer it was that she had fallen for him nonetheless, that she had overlooked his flaws and seen him for the person he had never shown to others for fear that they would think him pathetic.  
  
Spot didn't know what was overcoming him but Rosary's soothing words were like enchanted melodies that could discipline any wild beast, and they had done the like to him. He found that he didn't want to live up to his name when he was with her. She was different from others in that she wouldn't criticize him if he refused to be Brooklyn and instead chose to simply be Spot Conlon.  
  
He leaned in closer to her, his heart beat quickening as he did so. Would she reject him again as she had done at Medda's? There was only one way to find out. He furthered his intentions; the adrenaline was surging within the both of them. But just as Spot's lips were to brush against Rosary's, the girl turned her head with a frown.  
  
"Spot," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy, water stretching across their surface and unwilling to be shed as tears. "I...I can't do this with you."  
  
Frustration snapped in his eyes, but he withheld it. "Why not?"  
  
"It wouldn't be right. We're two different people, Spot. We weren't meant to...to be like this. I'm from Harlem and you're from Brooklyn and the two do not mix at all. It would cause too many conflicts if we did. I apologize, but I just can't."  
  
"Rosary..." His face was taught; he couldn't comprehend her reasoning. "Why do youse stay loyal tah someone like ya bruddah, knowin' the type of person he is? Marcello's moidered people, Rosary, for no reason whatsoever. D'ya really wanna stay at 'is side, even after all that?"  
  
She, herself, wasn't sure why she continued to defend Marcello. Perhaps she was merely making excuses now. "I wish you the best of luck tomorrow, Spot. I honestly do." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek and then rose to her feet even quicker. "I'm truly sorry, but we can't be more than this. I wish we could, but it's not meant to be."  
  
Holding out her hand, she presented him with the rosary she had earlier been praying over and he accepted it indifferently. "You may need this more than I do tomorrow, for good blessings." Then she turned away, and disappeared out the door.  
  
Spot looked down at the piece of jewelry the girl had given him and smiled wryly. Even then he knew that he would always remember December 19th as the day when Brooklyn needed a rosary. His borough needed hope, and he...he needed the girl who had taught him a valuable lesson about life.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
"Patrick...darling..."  
  
The woman smiled down at her only son and caressed his cheek with a small, frail hand. The boy, in turn, returned the smile and beamed with pride at having won her affection. He had just gotten an 'A+' on an exam. Only his first week of school and he was already performing excellently. The teachers were already predicting the wonderful future the boy would have.  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
"Patrick Thomas Conlon is among the highest ranking students in this entire school! At the rate he's going, he has a chance at valedictorian in his senior year!"  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
Andrew pulled his younger cousin out into a secluded area of the courtyard where they wouldn't be as noticed by administrators or fellow classmates and unclenched his fingers to reveal a pocket knife in his hand. He pulled the blade back, all the while laughing, and nodded to a tree that was before them with a smirk.  
  
"Let's leave our mark on Trinity Prep, shall we?" And then ever so meticulously, he brought the blade's point to the bark of the tree and began carving his initials into the wood. 'M.A.C.' Merryll Andrew Conlon. Then he handed over the knife to his cousin.  
  
The younger of the two stared at the object and grinned. Merryll always had to detach from the conforming masses at their high school, and he supposed this was merely another way of doing it. So as before, he would always follow along. He spent the next few minutes carving in his own initials. 'P.T.C.' Patrick Thomas Conlon.  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
Three months later, the two cousins were on the run. "They've got nothing against us," Merryll had said, "but I'll be damned if I'm going to stay in that hellhole another day! Be a stuck-up little scholar all you want, Patrick. Try to make friends with that bastard Steven-because you know he's the one that set us up! Do you realize what everyone's going to think when we step foot back on that campus? That we actually were getting high on that shit-load of drugs stashed in our room! But screw that; I'm done with this life. I want a life of my own."  
  
Patrick's eyes were wide with fear, but he admired Merryll, he looked up to the elder, and so he followed after.  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
"Heya Spot," Flame greeted as he spit shook with the new leader of Brooklyn. "Quite a show youse put on a few days ago, challengin' Baker, and then winnin' ya title as leadah. Allow me tah introduce meself. I'se in charge of Queens; ya ever have a problem, know ya allies, huh?"  
  
A week before Christmas, he returned with a calendar. Spot wasn't at his usual throne of crates, but his younger cousin was. Flame approached the boy with a wide grin and held the calendar out to him. "Heya Patrick, still woikin' on that newsie name?"  
  
"I rather be called by the name I already have."  
  
Flame shrugged. "Sure, whatever. Listen, I'se had a few extras of these so I'se was givin' 'em out tah the boys in Manhattan. Want one?"  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
Patrick sat in the room he shared with his older cousin and stared at the wall in front of him for lack of better things to do. He wasn't like Spot in that he could easily socialize with the others. He missed his education, his home, and most of all he missed his family. Sometimes when he and Spot would pass into Manhattan, he would catch a glimpse of his mother handing out food to the children all over the city, but Spot would always drag him along so as not to be seen.  
  
He wanted to tell his mother that he was all right, that he was living with Spot now on their own and that, though they were riff raffs making a dime here and there, he still loved her, and one day hoped to reunite with her. At least once Spot was ready.  
  
He looked down at the calendar Flamed had given him. It started in the upcoming month of January. Letting out a sigh of longing, he brought a pencil to the bottom of the calendar's frame and wrote out his initials. 'P.T.C.'  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
He had been trampling through the snow all day, hiding behind looming edifices that reached upwards like monsters reminding him of his dastardly doings. The snow was making his trek a laborious one; Spot was already a few yards up ahead. They were going to St. John's Cathedral; Patrick had finally convinced Spot to let him visit his mother just once before Christmas.  
  
Suddenly, a scream pierced the air. There was a muffled noise, and then men shouting as if ordering about slaves. Spot tried to pull Patrick into an alley to keep him from danger, but the younger cousin pulled out of his grip and dashed to the source of the noise just in time to see a man pull a trigger...  
  
The gunshot would forever sound in his heart. He fell to his knees where before him the snow was steadily changed to red.  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
*'P.T.C' ..."I don't want that name anymore, you hear me? I hate it! I hate it! I don't want it!" He upturned the desk in Spot's room and tore the first three months of Flame's calendar to shreds. "I hate it! I hate it! I don't even want to remember it again! Don't ever call me by that name again!"*  
  
*"Patrick...darling...."*  
  
*The 'white beauties' fell everywhere. That's what she use to call the snow...'white beauties'. He was entranced with them as they descended, hoping perhaps his mother would love to build a snowman this year.*  
  
*He changed his name to Lucas; it was his father's name. He thought it suited him better than the name by which his mother called him. It wasn't filled with bitter memories at least.*  
  
*His face was dirtied with tears, blood, and a loss of incorruptibility. His body convulsed once and then he fell limp to the ground. "Warm the boy," he heard someone shout from afar. "The cold is getting to him!" The cold? He remembered thinking the cops were idiots.*  
  
*"Patrick! Patrick!" Spot had materialized out of nowhere. He took Patrick into his arms and shook him vigorously. This carried on for weeks afterwards. Patrick would speak to no one; he would stay isolated on his bed, gazing at nothing. He might as well had been a mere sculpture. There were fits of utter embroilment only twice, and then bothersome silence.*  
  
*"I hate that name! I hate that name! Damnit, why'd she have to go? Why!? What did she ever do to anyone! I hate that damn name!"*  
  
*The Brooklyn newsies gathered all around his bed while a doctor sat at the mattress's edge, examining the boy before him. Patrick's skin had gone completely pale, his cheeks and lips lacked color, and his eyes were bloodshot. He was trembling as if going through a seizure; three Brooklyn boys had to restrain him from harming himself or the others.*  
  
*"Is he going to make it?" No one knew.*  
  
*It was early February. Patrick had since adopted the name Lucas as his own, but had only declared it in one of his rantings about the injustices of a society laden with evils. Now he had retreated back onto his cavernous mind of indifference. God, he wanted to die.  
  
Spot came to him that same day. His green-blue eyes were inwardly sobbing. "Lucas," he whispered. "I'm sorry..."*  
  
- - - - - - -  
  
Runner nearly shrieked when he came to a rude awakening from the nightmare that had haunted him that morning. The boys who were suppose to be guarding him were fast asleep, but he assumed Marcello was wide awake downstairs. Escape would prove futile, and fatal. Surprisingly enough, the Harlem leader had held back on the punishment so far. Perhaps he was having a change of heart.  
  
Runner pressed his hand against the pane of a nearby window and wiped away the frost so that he could see the city below him. Harlem looked like the peaceful city of a snow globe...white masses, like blankets of cotton, were accumulating on the streets and walks. Overhead, the midnight skies were mysterious, a black satin dress ornamented with sparkling sequins.  
  
'White beauties.'  
  
Weariness came upon him then, his eyelids becoming heavy. Sleep beckoned. But just before he was to retire, it suddenly hit him more viciously than an ambush from all sides. It was December 19th! He would have collapsed onto his bed in exhaustion, but the realization of what today represented caused him to pass out into unconsciousness right there.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
REVIEW! ^_^ Love ya! 


	15. Once a Brooky, Always a Brooky

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters featured in Disney's Newsies belong to me but instead belong to Disney! *SuRpRiSe* Everyone else, ESPECIALLY Runner Conlon, belong to me! ^_^ Have a nice day! Kaylee and Firecracker own themselves.  
  
A.N.: w00t w00t, another chapter! ^_^ We broke 100, we broke 100!!! YaaaaaY! Thanks so much everyone, for all the positive feedback! It's great knowing so many people love this story and it keeps me writing. : ) Thanks to: imaginelet, dncngqueen17, Gothic Author, Kaylee, Dimples, Sweets Conlon, Raven's Wing, Jade Shintz, geometrygal, and Deanie! Well, it took me three days to write this baby out, lol. LONG CHAPTER AHEAD! Sit back, grab a drink, relax, and enjoy!  
  
When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary  
  
Runner jogged up to her happily, his emerald eyes glowing with a youthful fervor and his smile more radiant than the sunniest of days. He threw his arms out to accept her embrace and held her tightly. She was in a joyous shock, crying out with thanks that she had finally been reunited with the boy; her elation obvious in the way she squeezed his body against her own, never wanting to let go. "Patrick!" she exclaimed, "My boy has returned! My son, my son! Where have you been! Thank God, my Patrick..."  
  
And he, wanting to tell her everything at once, pulled back excitedly and opened his mouth to begin the narration of his adventures. But then something dreadful happened. His mother's body jerked forward and no longer was she able to speak. Blood trickled from her mouth like a stream branching from the source that had birthed it and her eyes grew watery, staring off but seeing nothing. She collapsed to the ground. The boy tried to stabilize her unto her feet, but only managed in dirtying his hands and clothes with the woman's blood.  
  
"Patrick..." was her last word; she had always whispered the name as if saying a prayer. The boy screamed out to her, but she was already gone...  
  
"Runner!!"  
  
Runner snapped out of the trance and remembered where he was. He sat at a table in one of the smaller rooms of the Harlem lodging house, Marcello standing before him with a pejorative look. The quarters were dark, for the window shades were drawn closed, and the young Conlon had a feeling of being interrogated by a squad of police.  
  
"D'ya realize I'se gots the authority tah have ya killed by me boys? Alls I gotta do is say one woid and they'll tie youse up in no time and send ten bullets through ya head."  
  
"Then what's stoppin' ya?"  
  
Marcello looked at him, startled that he had the audacity to even ask such a thing. Was this boy intimidated by nothing? He leaned against an opposing wall and studied the young Conlon's face meticulously. The shadows under Runner's eyes gave evidence to his lack of sleep, and the cuts that graced his face and arms showed that his brawl with Ramon had been a rough one.  
  
"Listen, Silvah, I'se don't know why youse insist on bein' a lousy scab. What's standin' up fer Spot gunna get ya, huh? In the years you've been wid the bum, how have youse moved up in the woild? Shoah, he's the leadah a' Brooklyn, but what are youse? Just another woithless street rat under 'is wing."  
  
"That aint true," said Runner. "I'se...well, I could have a high position in the newsie woild if I'se wanted tah. But I don't."  
  
"Ah, don't gimme that shit! When I'se made ya me right-hand man, I saw how happy it made youse, I saw how much ya wanted tah feel like youse meant somethin'. Ya got a family heah, Silvah. Ya got the closest things tah bruddahs youse'll ever know. Ya aint just a newsie heah, ya a fellow gang member, and we'se stand fer each other no mattah what."  
  
Marcello walked to the table behind which the boy sat and rested his hands onto its surface. He waited until Runner looked up to meet his gaze and then continued. "Spot don't care 'bout youse, kid. Why don't ya make a stand fer yaself and show 'im what ya really made out of? Don't settle fer nothin' but the best, and Harlem's the best youse can get. Ya think Spot cares whether I kill ya or not; d'ya think any of Brooklyn cares?"  
  
"Oh, look who's talkin'! Youse is lettin' ya sistah stay in Brooklyn just tah prove some point that no one can get tah youse!"  
  
"Ya wrong," the older replied. "If youse remember, when I'se found out Spot had Rosary, I made Ramon go tah Brooklyn the very next day. But of coise youse remember, that's the day ya killed me lil' messenger." His face grew even more serious. "Ya don't need tah keep lettin' Spot keep ya down. Youse gots real potential, Silvah. Youse gots potential tah be someone greater than who Spot wants ya tah be."  
  
Runner's thoughts accelerated through his mind, merging together in an incoherent mass, a spinning wheel that's individual spokes could not be seen. Was Marcello speaking the truth? Was Spot only keeping his cousin from being someone great, possibly because he had potential to obliterate the power Spot Conlon so dearly clung to? If Runner separated himself from the renowned leader, could he become a legend himself?  
  
"He's me cousin..."  
  
"But look at all he's put ya through. After all, if it weren't fer 'im, youse probably wouldn't be in all this mess. Ya probably wouldn't have tah be one of the few newsies that kill a man 'fore he's even eighteen."  
  
Runner's eyes flashed a deadly warning directed not to Marcello but rather to himself. 'Spot betrayed you,' it hissed. 'He took you away from everything you once loved, and if it weren't for him...she'd still be alive.' He sighed and covered his face with his hands. "What d'ya want me tah do?"  
  
"Me spies been tellin' me Brooklyn plans tah attack tonight. It'll be our poifect chance tah kill off Spot once and fer all. And youse, Silvah, is the best man fer the job." Marcello's smirk was a wicked one.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
The night sky was unblemished by a single cloud, the gray canvas stretching across the heavens, whispering of omens and forbidden secrets. The snow fell lightly upon the masses of newsboys who made their way to Harlem like a revolutionary brigade, all under the leadership of a ruthless young man who would accept no more attacks from his foe. The air was cool and liberated, like the spirit of a free-born and the temperature steadily dropping as the moon took up its nightly duty.  
  
It was a night that made the boys feel like the gods of their own destinies, one that made them forget their weaknesses and limitations. It was a night that bred bloodthirsty teenagers and vendettas that would not subside until someone paid the price.  
  
Rosary was the only female present among the street-fighters. She held to the fact that the only person who could escort her back home where she belonged was herself. She would no longer wait for Ramon; he was taking much too long.  
  
The bitter cold nipped at her skin and she crossed her arms tightly as a defense. Why was it that winter always had a dreary air to it? Why did nothing magical ever occur during winter?  
  
Perhaps, she thought, it was because of the lurking death that associated itself with the season. The book Ramon had made her purchased, 'Crime and Punishment', was pressed against her chest as if she were trying to transfuse its words into her heart. No longer could she find peace in works of fiction, however. She and the others had just step foot onto Harlem territory; it would be the last night for many.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Back in Manhattan, the newsgirls sat around the hearth to warm their hands while they exchanged their thoughts and opinions concerning the current war with Harlem. Fire, as always, had much to say. "We'se gots Midtown, Staten Island, and Brooklyn on our side. How could anything go wrong?"  
  
The older girls weren't so sure, though. After Queens' brilliant display of treachery not too long ago and now the uncertainty of Runner's involvement in the murder of a newsboy, they weren't so quick as to cast their votes in Manhattan's favor.  
  
"Aw, come on," said Fire, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose as they began to slide down. "Jack's never steered us wrong. He knows what he's doin'! And 'sides, I'se never hoid of Brooklyn losin' anything tah anyone."  
  
Kaylee watched her friend speak on and was almost moved by her conviction, but her heart still worried for Racetrack and all the others that would be at his side. Back where she grew up, the newsboys never had problems like this; they were always united in all things, helping each other out. "How long d'ya think it'll last?"  
  
Summer, busily sweeping away nearby, shrugged. "Sometimes things like this last only an hour, sometimes they last all evening long. Considerin' how much Spot wants Marcello tah suffer, I'se guessin' we'se won't see our boys 'til about midnight."  
  
The others exchanged worried glances but spoke no words. It would be a long wait.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Runner took a long drag on the cigarette Lefty had given him and checked to make sure his gun was loaded. He was surprised the weapon had found its way back to his possession. During his clash with Ramon, the gun had been kicked out of his hand, and Runner, in too much of a hurry to flee the scene, had forgotten to recollect it.  
  
"The bulls is getting' stupider by the day," Lefty said then, noticing Runner's curiosity. "You'd think they's would soich the entire place fer any weapons, but all they's care 'bout is dead bodies. When Marcello and us went tah get youse in Brooklyn, we took the same route Ramon had, and one of the boys spotted the gun behind a trash can. We recognized it as yours."  
  
"I'se wasn't lookin' tah be reunited wid the damn thing, but aint it screwed up how life woiks." He had one bullet in the gun's barrel. One chance to end a life. Would he rise to meet the opportunity, though? Or would he hesitate as he had before his first murder?  
  
"Silvah?"  
  
The young Conlon looked up, though it was no more than a mere glance. For some reason, Lefty scared the hell out of him. The Harlem newsie wasn't exactly intimidating in any aspect, but Runner still hated to be alone with him. "What?"  
  
"Why'd ya kill Ramon? Was it 'cause he wanted 'is place back as Marcello's right-hand man?" He stepped closer to the boy, his greater height casting shadows onto Runner's face. "Ya know how many Italians is gunna want tah skin ya alive when woid gets out that youse is livin' heah?"  
  
"Ya ask me like I'se care." Runner pushed past him, only to stop short when he saw Marcello standing in the doorway.  
  
"They's heah," the leader announced. "I'se got fifty of me newsies already downstairs ready tah fight when I tell 'im to. Half of the gang is outside talkin' wid the bums now, but that's only fer show. The rest of 'em is already up in the meetin' room. That's where you, me, Flame, and whatever bozos Spot brought wid 'im is gunna be. Queens is gunna ambush the kids outside from the back once the fightin' gets started. Any questions?"  
  
"Yea, why can't youse kill Spot yaself?"  
  
Marcello placed one large hand on the boy's shoulder and grinned. "Cause if youse not man enough tah do it, I'll just blow out your brains. Remember, Silvah, youse is still breathing 'cause of me. I could kill ya anytime I want tahnight and if youse fail tah pull the trigger on ya cousin, then I'll just kill the both of youse."  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Spot was only allowed a company of nine to follow him into Harlem's lodging house and so he chose wisely. Rosary would definitely accompany him; he still believed Marcello might be dissuaded from his mental corruption if his darling sister were present. Next he chose Jack and Race, the leaders from Midtown and Staten Island and their seconds in command, Piper and lastly, Scapegoat.  
  
All set, they walked on to where Marcello and his crew would undoubtedly be waiting. Spot didn't particularly like the idea of leaving his newsies behind on the streets under the distrustful guard of Harlem's gang. There was something about the ordeal that bothered him. Unable to decipher what it was, he shook away his worries and led his company into the lodging house.  
  
The Harlem newsies yelled out curses and threats to the nine enemies as they passed, screaming to them about their forthcoming death. The only thing that lessened the riot by some degree was Spot's bone chilling glare. Whether on enemy's territory or not, he was still very much feared. The little company ascended the rickety stairs to the second story where at the end of one hall was the room where the fate of hundreds of newsies would be determined.  
  
Spot looked back at the others. "All right, this is the big showdown, boys. Don't believe everything ya hear, 'specially if it comes outta Marcello's mouth. We'se heah fer one reason and one reason only: tah kick his ass outta New Yawk. We aint woikin' out no truces or agreements, ya got that? If he don't accept, that just means we'll have tah force 'im tah leave."  
  
The others nodded. Spot turned around and proceeded to walk towards the room. Inside, three tables were lined up end to end for a total seating ability of 20 individuals, half of those seats already filled by Marcello's band of miscreants.  
  
"Finally made it Brooklyn? Ya had us thinkin' youse weren't gunna show up."  
  
"What, and miss the chance tah soak ya 'til ya dead?" Spot gave him a malevolent smirk and then took his seat at the table, the others from his company following suit. Runner sat across the way from him at Marcello's right. "Clean the wax outta ya ears and listen tah me real good, Marcello. Youse lay a finger on me cousin and Rosary heah will have tah spend a month in the hospital after I get through wid 'er." The girl's sharp intake of air wasn't as good a display of her surprise as was her face. Her eyebrows furrowed with an angered strength, disgust plastered on her expressions.  
  
Marcello laughed. "Ya aint gotta worry 'bout that, Spotty. I'se wasn't intendin' on doin' anything tah the kid." He nodded to the boys on his side of the table and all eight of them drew their guns and laid them on the table. Only Runner and Marcello remained motionless.  
  
"I thought we'se agreed on no weapons!" Jack nearly yelled.  
  
"We did, but I'se surprised youse all trusted me woid." The Harlem leader crossed his arms in front of him and grinned. "So hand over me sistah and I'll give youse ya cousin."  
  
Spot glanced at Jack, unsure of whether he could trust Marcello enough to complete the deal. After all, his crew had guns. They could just about do whatever they pleased. He looked to Runner then, as if the answer resided in the younger boy, but Runner's eyes were unreadable. "Okay, fine."  
  
Rosary pushed her seat back, rose to her feet, and walked around the table to stand behind Marcello. She didn't feel any safer. Something wrong was going on. Marcello's grin never failed. "So, uh, Spotty. I guess it's me toin tah be givin' up ya cousin, eh? Well, that's all well and good but I'se aint too shoah he's wantin' tah be wid Brooklyn any more."  
  
"Heya, I'se aint heah tah play no games," Spot replied sternly. "Gimme the kid and let's get this damn meetin' over wid."  
  
"Actually, there's been a change in plans, Conlon." The Harlem leader made a signal with his hand and one of his boys closed the room's only door, locking the occupants inside with a key that was soon after thrown out a window.  
  
Spot and company instantly stood to their feet, provoking their enemies to do the same thing, except Harlem's brood executed the actions so indifferently it led the others to wonder what the hell was going on. Once again, Runner and Marcello stayed seated, as if they were statues cursed with immobility.  
  
Marcello continued on. "Ya see, we'se kinda tired of ya crap, Brooklyn. Ya newsies gots a bigger territory than us since the bulls won't let us sell in certain areas of Harlem. Personally, I don't think either a' youse desoive such a big borough as much as we'se do. We woik ten times harder than any Brooklyn scab; why shouldn't we rule New Yawk?"  
  
"At foist I'se wasn't shoah 'bout the whole business." It was Flame who spoke now. His nonchalance was disgusting. "But I figure I aint got nothin' tah lose. If anything, I could probably gain some parts of Manhattan and go home happy."  
  
Spot was ready to rip someone's head off. This was ridiculous, and completely against the codes Newsie leaders were suppose to follow. Marcello was breaking every rule ever written, was playing as if he wanted to be exiled. Spot wouldn't have a problem seeing the process through.  
  
"So we decided to write out a new plan," said Marcello. "We'se decided we'd just kill ya, Spot, and then see how willin' the bastards that got ya back now are tah die along wid youse."  
  
Runner was in another world, another time. His eyesight was dimming and his stomach gurgling, it wanting to expel its contents. The frosty airs from outside were steadily breaking the warmth barriers of the room, but he knew he'd sooner die from the coldness of his heart.  
  
Spot was saying something now. The younger Conlon looked up and nearly hurled. The room was whirling around uncontrollably, those present no more than hazy figments of reality that shimmered like heat waves. Runner gripped the edge of the table before him for strength and marveled at the figures of black and white that danced about. Some merely stood in place, archaic sentinels from ages past, and still others intertwined their forms with those of the boys gathered.  
  
Runner closed his eyes tightly and then reopened them. The figures were gone, his eyesight restored. Still he could not dispel the inner sickness that lingered. He looked down under the table where his gun sat upon his lap and almost smiled wryly at a certain idea. All of Marcello's allies were armed with guns, yet none of those weapons that had so suavely been taken out and laid before Brooklyn and company were actually loaded; they were merely there for a daunting affect. However, what of Marcello's gun? Had the Harlem leader unloaded his gun as well, or would he keep his promise of killing Spot himself if Runner defied the command?  
  
"Marcello, please don't do this," Rosary whispered to her brother in Italian. "It's not worth it. None of it is."  
  
"Don't involve yaself in it," he replied in the same language, but then in English he added, "Or are youse gettin' soft on Spot? Ya'd think that after spyin' on 'im and then sendin' the info back tah us, youse wouldn't want anything tah do wid the bum!"  
  
Spot shot Rosary a confused look. "Youse was double-crossin' me?" This was unbelievable! He felt torn in more than one way. Was that why she was so hesitant about everything, what she had meant by saying she didn't want to hurt him? Well it was too late for that!  
  
"Spot, I...I..." Her heart broke. What was she to say? That she had to, that it had been her duty? Would that have comforted him in any way? Would it have wiped the hurt of betrayal from his face? She opened her mouth to try again but Marcello cut her off short.  
  
"Enough of this bullshit. Spot, I hope ya have fun boinin' in hell. Silvah, do the honors."  
  
Runner knew that was his cue and forced himself to his feet, the hand that held the gun trembling. Droplets of sweat drenched his forehead and the back of his shirt, and yet his lips cracked with dryness. "Spot," he said, pulling the gun into view, "I'se aint a Brooklyn newsie no more."  
  
"Runnah, what the hell is youse doin'!? Marcello's got ya brainwashed, man! Ya think this is where ya belong? Who was it that took ya in, if not Brooklyn! Who's always got ya back, if not Brooklyn! Damnit Runnah, don't ya dare toin scab on me now!"  
  
The younger Conlon exploded. "Youse killed 'er, Spot! Youse killed 'er! Don't that mean somethin' tah youse!? She was out lookin' fer us like she had been fer months since we'se left! If it weren't fer us, she'd be inside that choich, safe and warm! But no! Ya never think about anybody but yaself. Ya never think that there could be someone out there who cares!  
  
"Well she cared, Spot! She cared a hell of a lot more than anyone you'd ever meet would! And she was out in that damn cold that day, lookin' fer me! Lookin' fer us! And those bastards fuckin' killed 'er! They's came outta nowhere and just shot 'er dead, just tah get a few pieces of bread! But it wouldn't have happened if not fer youse! I coulda still been wid me family, in me nice home...but ya took it all away from me!"  
  
The room was silent; it was as if the two cousins were its only tenants. They stared at each other in the silence, thinking both about the past and the present. Spot was experiencing a number of things. Disbelief, resentment, hurt, desolation. It had been a year since his aunt was killed and never once had Runner revealed his true feelings concerning the event. They had remained locked up within the boy for much too long, and now threatened to erupt into violence.  
  
The Brooklyn leader sighed. "Lucas, there weren't nothin' we coulda done tah help 'er. Shoah, maybe we'se shouldn't have left home in the foist place, but we did and there aint nothin' youse can do tah change that fact. But ya can't keep blamin' people fer things outta their control. I'se wasn't even the one who pulled the damn trigger, Lucas! D'ya really think this is gunna make up fer any of it, though? D'ya think joinin' Marcello's lil' gang of idiots is gunna make ya muddah come back tah life?"  
  
"Ya don't belong wid 'em," Spot went on. "Youse is a Brooky and ya always have been. Once a Brooky, always a Brooky. D'ya think I'se woulda taken ya wid me tah the streets if I'se didn't think ya had the heart tah survive? Youse made of tough shit, Lucas! That's why I sent ya tah Harlem in the foist place! Youse me number one newsie, and yea I sock ya good sometimes but only 'cause I know youse can handle it. Don't throw that all away fer some cheap thrill of doing Marcello's doity woik fer 'im."  
  
Runner shook his head. "I'se a moiderer, Spot." When the other tried to interrupt him, he held up his free hand as if to say 'wait' and finished his idea. "I'se not who ya think I am. I'se killed two newsies. Some scab named Eliezer and Ramon heah from Harlem."  
  
Jack and Race exchanged a knowing look; Rosary gaped at the boy from where she stood, her heart accelerating in beat. Ramon! A tear fell from the corner of her eye but she didn't bother to wipe away. This was too much. Spot couldn't even find the words to respond. His cousin...a murderer?  
  
"And so I aint got nothin' tah live fer no more," Runner admitted as he brought the gun up and aimed it for Spot. "Youse is me only family but I got tah thinkin' that ya probably better off without me, so..." Suddenly he turned the pistol so that it was facing his own head. "...goodbye."  
  
Everything happened at once then. Just as Runner was about to pull the trigger and end his life, Marcello shoved him to the floor with a furious yell, the gun firing off and creating a hole in the ceiling. Outside, this same gunshot signaled to the hundreds assembled below that the fighting was now to start. It was a brutal clash of iron rods, bats, slingshot shooters, and clenched fists. Back in the meeting room, the twenty newsies representing boroughs across the state collided together in a murderous quarrel.  
  
Spot and Marcello faced each other at the room's center. The Italian snickered. "Ya cousin shoah proved me wrong. All this time I had been thinkin' Brooklyn didn't have what it takes tah kill a man. It's a shame I just didn't let 'im send a bullet through 'is head."  
  
"It's a shame he didn't send one through yours!"  
  
Marcello laughed bitterly and then from an inner pocket of his vest, took out a pistol, the silver gleaming. His was the only other gun besides Runner's that had been loaded for the night's events. "I promised meself I'd kill ya one way or another." He held the gun out, ready to shoot.  
  
"No!" From afar, Rosary had been watching and now she came dashing to Spot, freely crying and showing her pain. She threw herself in front of the Brooklyn leader, arms held out, refusing to indulge Marcello with the dead body of another enemy. But Marcello had already fired a bullet during all this, and now as he saw his sister becoming the unintended target, he screamed at her to move out of the way.  
  
The bullet lodged into the girl's abdomen; her body froze from the stun and then fell back into Spot's arms. Spot gently laid her onto the floor of the room, trying not to panic when it seemed the perfect chance to, squeezing his hand against the wound in an effort to keep the blood in. "Rosary!" he called out to her. "Rosary, stay wid me!" Her life was gradually slipping away, though. Her breath shortened and she shivered with fear.  
  
Marcello stepped back and looked at his sister dying in shock. It wasn't supposed to happen like this! She wasn't supposed to have protected Spot! He looked at the Brooklyn leader and the veins in his neck tightened. "That bastard!" he said between clenched teeth. He had several more bullets left. He could do away with Spot now and be done with it!  
  
Spot held Rosary's hand firmly and assured her she'd be all right. He wasn't sure whether all he spoke was true, but it was his fancy that it had to be. She had to pull through; she had to come out of the struggle triumphantly! "Rosary, stay wid me," he said to her again. A sound to his left caused him to look up. His glare was a fierce one; Marcello was holding a gun mere inches from Spot's face.  
  
"Ya shot ya sistah, Marcello, and she needs help right now. Can't ya see that?"  
  
"She'll be fine," the Italian snapped. "But I can't say the same fer youse. Ya gunna die tahnight and..." He never finished. Someone from the back clobbered him on the head with an object and the Harlem leader collapsed to the floor unconscious. Spot watched Marcello fall and then looked back up, a smile forming on his face. Runner had been standing behind the ruthless Italian, a chair in his hands.  
  
"I thought youse weren't a Brooklyn newsie any more," Spot said to him.  
  
Runner shrugged with a smirk. "Once a Brooky, always a Brooky."  
  
The older cousin nodded in agreement, but when Rosary moaned in pain he was interrupted from the banter to tend to her. He took her into his arms, lifted her off the floor, and then stood to his feet, holding her close to keep her warm. "Runnah, we'se gots tah get outta heah quick, without gettin' into any of these fights. She needs tah see a doctor as soon as possible."  
  
"Follow me." The younger Conlon kicked down the door that had earlier been locked and led his cousin to the back of the lodging house, where they would escape through secret alleys far from the riots that now graced Harlem.  
  
Spot followed closely, whispering into Rosary's ear every few minutes. "Don't worry," he would say. "Youse is gunna make it. We'se is takin' ya tah a doctor." Her eyes were now closed. He wondered if she would forever stay like that.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Oh My! That was LONG! *takes a nap* Well there's one more chapter left! It'll probably be a long one too! Leave a review, please? ^_^ Love ya all! 


	16. New Beginnings

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters from Newsies belong to me but rather belong to the oh-so-wonderful Disney. *rolls eyes* However, I do claim Runner and Rosary as my own, and all the other original characters in this story are mine as well. So bleh!  
  
A.N. Finally finished!!! w00t w00t! I'm so glad to finally complete this story; it's been a long, hard road but we've reached the end now! Thank you all so very much for the support, thank you to those of you who voted to keep me going, thank you for all the constructive criticism and compliments! You all rock my socks! THANK YOU! Shout-outs to: Imaginelet, Dimples, Aurora Conlon, Gothic Author, Phoenix, klover, goldstranger, geometrygal, Kaylee, and Deanie!!! You've all been faithful. Thank you!!  
  
*When Brooklyn Needed A Rosary*  
  
Runner Conlon wasn't quite sure what had pushed him to come to Spot's aid last night when Marcello seemed intent on ending the Brooklyn leader's life, even if it meant postponing his sister's recovery until later. He didn't know of what source it had been from which he had drawn the strength to rise to his feet after being knocked out to the floor from Marcello's shove and stand tall once again as a Brooklyn newsie should. Maybe it was seeing his comrades war against the Harlem reprobates for the freedom of each borough and that of his own. Maybe it was seeing Marcello for the smooth-talking criminal that he really was, his acceptance of Runner nothing more than a mask. Or perhaps...perhaps it was the remorse he had seen in Spot's eyes that finally made him realize the Brooklyn leader was just as struck by a haunted past as he.  
  
The cemetery was empty; the freeze of the northern winds too monstrous to bear. The land that stretched on for miles in every direction was mantled with layers of snow, the naked trees that outstretched their bare arm its only friend. Runner slowly knelt down onto one particular patch of white slush and began clearing the snow before him with his gloved hands until a stone slate was staring back up at him.  
  
Patricia Margaret Conlon. 'Born on February 23, 1866, herein lies the body of one of God's most blessed saints. A beautiful wife, a loving mother, and a dedicated servant who went to be with the Lord on December 19, 1900, when she was finally called home. May she be in peace for all eternity.'  
  
Runner bit his lip to keep the sob from escaping but the tears ignored his actions and gave life to his sorrow. His father had passed away months later from a broken heart. His remains had been sent to the south where the man had grown up.  
  
"Mother, I'm...forgive me," he managed to say after breathing in the frigid air about him. "I miss you; I don't want to go on, mother. I hate this life. It's bitter, unfair, and filled with hate. Why did you have to leave so soon? Why did you have to leave me alone in this world? I can't take it any longer! Every day I pray that death will find me in my sleep, but it never does...it never does.  
  
"Did it hurt to...to die, mother? Were you in pain?" The tears burned his cheeks as they trailed down but he didn't bother wiping them away. He sat back on his heels and controlled his emotions before they carried him away into hysterics. "I don't blame him anymore. Spot. It wasn't his fault, I realized, and it wasn't mines either. You had to go...you had to be delivered from this damned life.  
  
"But you took it bravely. Some people would bring razor blades to their wrists or pistols to their heads..." he winced in remembrance of his mindless actions. "But you kept on doing your work up until the end, until it was time for you to go." A single flake descended from on high and fell onto the stone slate, its delicate form melting away a second later. Runner watched its end with glassy eyes and then laid the bouquet of flowers he had purchased onto the grave, just above his mother's name.  
  
He kissed the stone and caressed its icy surface before saying his last words. "I have to move on now, mother. But I'll never forget you. I'll make you proud and be the man you would've wanted me to be. Save a place for me up there, okay?" He laughed lightly then and even found a way to smile. "Life's a battle, but we have to keep fighting it, that's what you always told me. And I will. And one day we'll meet again. But until then, all I can say is, I love you..."  
  
For a moment, as he lay there upon the grave, he could almost feel the tender touch of her hand upon his cheek. He imagined she was there with him, watching as she had been all year long, for he felt it in his soul that she yet lived in his heart. He felt at peace, and just as he climbed to his feet to go away, he listened to the gentle song of the winds... "Patrick...darling..."  
  
He closed his eyes and saw her, standing amidst a brilliant beacon of light, waiting for him with a loving smile. He reached out his arms to hug her, but only embraced air. Reopening his eyes, he smiled at the solitude of the cemetery.  
  
"We'll meet again," he whispered. "When it's time for me to go home."  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Four months had passed since the events that had nearly torn apart a brotherhood of newsboys across the state of New York. The authorities had seized all suspected of the murders that had plagued the city, and had sentenced the majority of the suspects to life in the state penitentiary, as most were near old enough to be tried as adults. Only a handful had been spared the horrors of prison life, but even those were punished with months in the House of Refuge or community work under proper supervision.  
  
Runner was tried on two accounts of murder, but on the day of his trial, officers from a detention center escorted a young Italian into the court who had requested to plead mercy on behalf of the accused boy. Runner's eyes widened. It was Marcello, and yet it was not. True it was the same Harlem leader, who had joked with him and took him in as his own, but the harshness of his crimes weighed heavily upon Marcello's shoulders and it clearly showed in the maturity evident on his face. His adulthood had been forced upon him in mere weeks.  
  
"Ya honor," Marcello said in slurred speech. "This boy aint got nothin' tah do wid Harlem. He was framed fer those two moiders, ya honor. Ya see, I'se was the one who killed both times. I openly admit it now; he had no part in any of it. He was, I guess what youse would call, a helpless standby. We'se forced 'im tah accompany us, told him we'd slit 'is throat if he didn't. And that's all he did. If there's anyone who desoives his charges, it's me."  
  
Runner couldn't fine the words to express his shock. Marcello, who already had three charges of murder on his plate, would undoubtedly die in prison, and yet he was willing to take up the blame himself? But why? Why did he wish to see Runner set free, why did he even care? It was Brooklyn that had ended him in jail, why would he come through for the young Conlon at the most trying time?  
  
There was no evidence against Runner, only a clue that he had once been a part of Marcello's gang; the district attorneys were on the verge of simply dropping the case. And so the boy was released with a sentence to serve a year in the House of Refuge while Marcello was taken in for his guilty plead. Later, outside court doors, Runner was being escorted down the halls when he caught sight of Marcello in handcuffs, leaning against a wall while officers chatted away before him.  
  
Runner excused himself for a moment and with permission from the officers, stepped up to Marcello and lowered his voice so that only the Italian could hear. "Why'd ya do that?" he asked, adopting the rough accent he had abandoned until now. "Why'd ya say all that? Ya know they might've found a way tah have me fer life if it wasn't fer youse. Why'd ya take the blame?"  
  
"What's it mattah, kid? Just be glad that I did, huh?" Marcello shifted his weight uncomfortably and saw that the boy was not satisfied with the answer. "I'se don't know, okay? I'se don't have any idea why I care shit about ya! I guess in a way, youse aint the one tah blame. I took advantage of ya want tah be accepted, Silvah. In a way, I'se killed ya meself 'cause I took away what heart ya had left. So it wasn't really youse killin' those boys. It was me hatred that had somehow found its way in youse that killed 'em. Shoah it aint a realistic defense, but think about it this way. Youse is gunna be Brooklyn's next leadah while I'se live out the rest of me damn life behind bars."  
  
The officers bid Runner away as it was time for them to make the long journey to the state penitentiary. The young Conlon nodded and watched as the man he had once admired was led off. He was rendered speechless but before his mind could process it, the words rolled off his tongue with a silent prayer. "God bless ya, Marcello!" he called out to the former leader.  
  
Marcello looked back with a smirk. "Yea, you too kid." Then he turned back around and walked out the doors to the fate that awaited him.  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
Rosary busily helped her mother and uncle prepare for dinner that night, the scents of fresh tomato sauce and veal filling the air with their delicious aroma. The girl had at last been reunited with her family. As she grated cheese, she watched her younger siblings tease and chase each other around the small abode that was her home. Trying though they were at times and irritable the noise they made, she found that she didn't mind in the least. It was something she had missed all too much of while being involved with Marcello's affairs.  
  
Her mother still grieved for her son's lost innocence, prayed daily that he would renounce his ways and start a new lead in life eventually, but little by little the family moved on as life is apt to do. They grew stronger after the circumstances they had been forced to live through and fortified their love for each other with kind words and actions.  
  
It was while Rosary checked on the baking biscuits that a knock on the front door captured her attention. She excused herself from the kitchen, wiped her hands on the apron she wore, and went to see about the visitor. Her heart stopped when she looked out the window. It was Spot.  
  
Looking back to make sure none from her family were too nearby, she slowly swung the door open, stepped out, and closed it behind her. It was beginning to warm up, even at night the heat still lingered. She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and allowed her heart to cease tensing once she met Spot's sparkling eyes. "What are you doing here?" she asked softly.  
  
"I'se just came by tah see how things is goin'. Ya know, I haven't seen ya since ya last day at the hospital and I'se was wonderin' how youse were holdin' up." His voice was gentle, a tone she had rarely hear him use. It was as if she were meeting an entirely different Brooklyn leader for the first time. He took a step closer to her and let his eyes wander over her body, as if he were looking for something, until they fell onto her lower stomach. "Are ya feelin' alright?" Just months earlier, he had been pressuring his hand against the smooth skin of her abdomen, a surreal moment that made him feel he was holding her life. She had seemed so frail then, so weak.  
  
She noticed his lowered look and brought a hand to the gunshot wound that had healed into a scar, pressing the fabric of her blouse against the injury. "Yes, the doctors simply told me to keep off my feet for a while until I regained full health." He nodded and then looked like he wanted so very much to say something, yet the moment had already passed. Rosary cocked her head to one side and studied him intensely. Why was he really here? Why had he been at her side in the first place? If she recalled correctly, hadn't he spat words at her about how her life was not of his concern? However, now he was here at her doorstep, exchanging conversation about her road to recovery.  
  
"Spot, why did you help me that night?" she asked suddenly. She needed to know, she in fact wanted to know! "You're Brooklyn's leader, and Harlem was your number one enemy. Why would you help me? Why would you care what happened to me, Marcello's sister? You could have left me there to die. But you risked your own life just to take me to the hospital and make sure I was in good hands. I don't understand it in any sense. Too often, what you say and what you actually do are contrary, and it baffles me."  
  
Spot wore a playful smirk and stepped closer to her as if he were about to share a secret. His eyes mirrored the glimmer of heaven's brightest stars and his voice almost made her knees weaken and give out. "It's cause I care 'bout youse, Rosary. You're somethin' else, ya know that? Ya strong-minded and don't take crap from no one. I like that in a woman and youse attracted me."  
  
She wanted to believe him. He was so close she could feel the breath of his words on her skin. His body heat radiated out towards her and she wanted to fall into his arms and forget about the past. But she couldn't. "I bet ya say that tah every goil ya want, huh?"  
  
"I aint denyin' it," he shrugged, turning away from her to lean against the brick exterior of her house. "But youse is probably the foist goil it's held true for. Ya different and spirited. Shoah youse is a pain in the ass and all, but I kinda like the challenge, ya know?" He paused to let the words settle in, hoping she caught where he was heading. It was hard enough being open with her like this, directly telling her how he felt. "I was kinda hopin' we'se could get together sometime and talk 'bout what's goin' on between us."  
  
"Nothing is going on," she replied quickly. "Do you think I'm not aware of your reputation, Spot? I would be surprised if anyone in this state did not know of you! Brooklyn's womanizer, the man who seduces girls for a night and then throws them to the curb the next day. Does the word 'relationship' even exist in your vocabulary? Since when have you cared what was going on between you and a young woman who caught your eye?"  
  
"Since I'se met youse." She looked at him and saw that he wasn't playing games, the mischievous expression on his face now gone. He neared her in a few footsteps and gazed into her eyes, trying to convey all his honesty into the following words. "I aint never had someone who was woith stayin' around for. I'se never met a goil who made me wanna quit playin' games. Ya see, there's lot'sa goils in this city willin' tah show youse a fun night, but none of 'em were right for me. Youse is right fer me, Rosary."  
  
Waiting for her reply nearly killed him. He had never said such a thing to anyone in his life! All his years as leader had been nothing more than good times that meant nothing to him. He couldn't even remember half the girls he'd been with. They were meaningless encounters, insincere one- night-stands he hadn't wished to further. But Rosary...she blew him away with her bold personality! She was stubborn and held up a good fight in any debate as did he. She was not easily swayed from her beliefs and he'd never seen such bravery in any girl he'd met.  
  
He didn't know how to show her that they needed each other, that they would make the ultimate couple. Their tempers matched and they could always keep each other in check. But when she remained unresponsive, he became uneasy. Why did she continue to hold back? There was nothing to be afraid of anymore!  
  
"Damnit Rosary," he whispered. "Don't ya dare tell me youse don't feel the same way, ya hear me? I see it in youse, goil! What's keepin' ya from lettin' go? Ya aint got no insane bruddah tah spy fer no more, ya aint even got enemies tah worry 'bout. Harlem's under a new leadership, and Brooklyn's watchin' after it. So what's the problem, cause I shoah as hell knows that ya want me just as much as I'se want youse."  
  
He grabbed her arms and held her tightly before him, demanding that she give him an answer. Rosary sighed, refusing to meet his look. "Spot..." She was suddenly reminded of all the times he had visited her in the hospital, had sat at her bedside whether she had been fully awake or gradually dozing off. One of those times he had come to forgive her for trading Brooklyn's secrets with Harlem in the espionage job she had kept hidden from him for so long. He told her it didn't matter anymore, that he had understood why she needed to do it.  
  
"Spot," she began again, "it wasn't meant to happen."  
  
"How the hell d'ya know?" he almost yelled.  
  
"Because...because, things are too confusing right now!" She freed herself from his grip and walked the length of the stoop upon which they stood. "You claim enemies no longer exist among the newsies but what's going to stop another riot from arising? What's going to stop those followers of Marcello who weren't caught by the police from forming their own gang? Don't you see, Spot? It's far too dangerous for you to get involved with anyone."  
  
He stepped up from behind her and brought his lips to her ear. "Well that's a risk I'se willin' tah take if it means woikin' this out wid youse." When she said nothing more, he turned her around to face him and gently placed his hands on her waist, pulling her closer. "Rosary, times will always be dangerous. If ya waitin' fer peace on earth, you'll be waitin' an eternity. Ya gotta take advantage of things while ya still can. One day, they'll be gone 'fore ya know it."  
  
She stood encircled in his arms for what seemed an eternity, feeling herself drown in his eyes as he stared down at her. Up against his body like that, she felt complete and whole, as if they were puzzle pieces designed to fit together. Several emotions whirled about in the pit of her stomach, making her light-headed and incredibly nervous. She was near shaking as she brought her hands to rest upon his chest, so broad and strong.  
  
Could she trust him? Was he only reiterating shallow words to get her where he wanted her? She didn't hold all the answers, but as she closed her eyes and felt Spot draw closer and closer, she knew that he was right in one thing. She did want him. She had wanted him ever since Medda's dance, ever since he had near kissed her on the dance floor until she pulled away. She had wanted him all along yet had locked up her feelings for too long.  
  
Well, she didn't intend on pulling away this time. In seconds, his lips were pressed against hers, so warm they felt to her, sending electricity through her body that would have made her tremble all the more. But Spot held her firm as the kiss evolved into a higher level of passion. She slid her hands higher up his chest until they were behind his neck, but when she found that it wasn't enough, she cupped his face in her hands and met him with her own authority.  
  
Spot held her tighter still, swinging her around and pressing her into the brick edifice with the strength of his body. She was setting him on fire in every imaginable place. He delve deeper into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her lips with his tongue before sliding it in for explorations. When she let out a submissive moan, he smiled against her lips and then moved to her neck and collarbone, where he nibbled at the skin in a tempting manner that chilled and aroused her at the same time.  
  
She grabbed his face again and seized control of his mouth, loving the flavor that was him. Every single thing he did awakened long forgotten feelings within her. The way he ran his fingers briskly through her hair, the way he massaged her hips, the way his kisses could be forceful but then tender. She wanted it all. She grabbed fistfuls of his sandy-blonde locks and deepened the embrace.  
  
Spot would have kept at it longer, but Rosary pulled away then, leaving them breathless yet craving for more. He leaned forward for another kiss, but she placed her fingers to his lips and smiled, nodding towards her front door. "My family will be having dinner in a few minutes. I'm not sure what we have going on, Spot, but I know that it's something well worth talking over. I've already lost a brother, I don't intend on losing someone close to my heart."  
  
He kissed her on the forehead and intertwined his fingers with hers. "So, youse admittin' that ya fell fer the great Spot Conlon, eh?" His eyes were playful again, ready to return to the banter they had many times shared before.  
  
"Not as hard as you fell for me, your highness," she threw back. They shared a laugh and then disappeared into the house to join the rest for the fine meal that waited and of course, to make proper introductions.  
  
It was a time for new beginnings.  
  
~the end~ @-}---  
  
~*~*~*~*~  
  
DONE!!! w00t w00t! Hope you all enjoyed it! Love ya mucho! Please leave your last reviews! ^_^ 


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